


The Two Commanders

by Katieee



Series: Shepard meets Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Idiots in Love, Minor Thane Krios/Shepard, Multi, Mutual Pining, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 189,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10052990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katieee/pseuds/Katieee
Summary: When Commander Shepard destroys the Reapers, she expects to die along with them. She does not expect to wake up in a strange, medieval world where people mistake her biotics for magic. Her plan is to find Liara, who accompanied her to the Crucible, and find her way home - providing she can outwit the grumpy Templar chasing her.Starting in Kirkwall just before the Mage rebellion and then skipping on through to Inquisition, get ready for two old soldiers struggling to redeem themselves and the slowest of burns.





	1. Chapter 1

In the end, dying wasn’t such a tough choice to make. It was picking _how_ to die that was the tricky part.

"So let me get this right,” Shepard said, gritting her teeth as she fought through the pain - really, it was a wonder that she was still standing. “I either destroy the Reapers, along with everything built on their tech, or I _control_ the Reapers as some benevolent overlord, or I merge synthetics and organics together.”

“In short, those are your choices,” the Starchild agreed.

“But whatever I choose, I die.”

“Yes,” it assented.

“Well. Shit.”

She ran her hand through her hair, eyes lingering on the Catalyst. All her hard work, all her suffering, all the bits of thread she had woven together to try and form some meaningful existence; it had all led to this one decision, and in that moment it was so hard to convince herself that any of that had mattered.

“Shepard, you aren’t really thinking about this, are you?” Liara asked, voice desperate, and Shepard turned to her for what was probably the final time.

She really ought to have left Liara behind with the injured Garrus, but in those final moments on Earth she’d been stupid and overwhelmingly scared, suddenly terrified of dying alone. It was awfully selfish, really, that Shepard had allowed her friend to follow her into this final dark night - no, not allowed, but _wanted_ \- but the truth was that Liara would follow her anywhere.

“You really think it’s that straightforward?” Shepard asked, and Liara’s eyes widened.

“Yes! This _synthesis_. We cannot change what it means to be alive for every single being; no-one should have that power. And by the Goddess, The Illusive Man fought to control the Reapers - would you really want to end up like him?”

“But I don’t want my final act to be one of destruction,” Shepard admitted, in a quiet and broken voice, and it was perhaps the most honest she’d ever been with the Asari. “Of _genocide_.”

“It’s not destruction,” Liara said softly, placing her hand on her arm. “It’s… amputating a limb to save a life.”

“And the Geth?” Shepard ventured, not even daring to put into words her biggest concern; EDI, and subsequently the Normandy, were part Reaper, and maybe it was unfair to put a handful of soldiers in the same category as an entire race, but the people on that ship meant everything to her. “They’re just a limb to chop off?"

“They are a species whose sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

She hesitated once more, looking down at the gun in her hand, and it was woefully unfair that she wasn’t allowed to play the shining hero in her final hour; even if she were to live, this would be one story that she could never bear repeating over drinks and card games with her crew. But there was no scheme to hatch, no crazy plan to save everyone and sail back home with a big smile on her face; there was just her, and a gun, and a friend who she should have tried harder to save.

“Shepard,” Liara said simply, and that was all she needed; steeling her resolve, she nodded once at Liara, grip tightening around the grip of her gun.

“Will you…?” Shepard asked, but she didn’t need to finish the question; Liara smiled encouragingly, placing her arm around Shepard’s waist to help her broken body along its final walk.

“I’m here, Shepard. Always.”

\---

And so, like two old soldiers approaching the executioner’s block, they strode towards the Catalyst with heads held high. Shepard fired her gun once, and then twice, and the machine spat out furious flames, fire erupting all around them as Liara’s grip on Shepard’s waist tightened. Shepard’s vision faded, her limbs heavy and numb as debris fell around them, and then quite suddenly everything was crimson, simultaneously the most beautiful and most haunting thing Shepard had ever seen. Somehow, she found herself moving towards it, needing to be immersed in that stunning, tragic hue in her last moments, Liara’s hand falling from her waist but still grabbing for her as she began to walk once more. Then the red was all around her, and then it _was_ her, and then there was nothing.

Much to Shepard’s surprise, it didn’t stay nothing.

Perhaps no time passed, or perhaps years did - Shepard couldn’t be sure. What she was sure of, however, was that she was waking up, face down in dirt and stone, incredibly sore but definitely not dead. 

Groaning, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, and then with great effort moved to sitting. Her flank seared with the effort, and she moved her hand to it; prodding beneath her torn armour, she could feel a wound which was fresh but apparently healing. Either she’d been out for a while, or someone had healed her.

She squinted, struggling to see in the gloom she found herself in, realising with a jolt that she was not on the Citadel; she was indoors, sure, but it was outdated, some strange stone building lit solely by sconces. Everything looked several centuries old, intricate carvings on the walls cracked and covered in dust. Where was she? Was this some remote part of Earth lost to the ages?

“Ah. She awakes.”

Shepard turned her head sharply at the deep, silky voice which emerged from the darkness, and she couldn’t help but let her mouth fall open when she caught sight of the one who had spoken. It looked nothing like she had ever seen before; a slender, seven-foot tall figure, who looked vaguely humanoid but with certain features reminiscent of Turians. She rubbed her eyes once, hoping it was just some combination of exhaustion and dim lighting, but when she looked again the figure was just as bizarre as before, and seemed to be inspecting her as if she was just as foreign to it and it was to her.

“If this is the afterlife, it’s _very_ weird.”

“Despite my best efforts, we are not in the Fade,” it spoke, clenching its hand and producing a ball of light as it bent down to her level, and Shepard quickly acknowledged and dismissed that unusual piece of tech. “I attempted to breach the Black City once more, but my passageway allowed only you and your demon through before it closed on itself again. Explain.”

In normal circumstances, Shepard would have chewed it - he? It sounded like a he - out for using such an insulting term to describe the Asari, but these were not normal circumstances, so much so that she had forgotten about Liara until that moment. “Wha—Liara! Where is she?”

“Your demon ran before we could use it,” he said dismissively. “I know not where it is now. I want to know what you are. You do not seem like a spirit; are you a fellow magister with the same goals as I?”

“Magister?” Shepard repeated the strange word. “Er—no. I’m a Spectre. Commander Shepard,” she said, and somehow the most strange of everything that had happened was that the name elicited no recognition from the man. “Commander of the Normandy? First human Spectre? Saviour of the Citadel?” she reeled off each of her titles, none of which seemed to mean anything to him. “Wow. Well, either you’ve been underground for a hundred years, or I’m a lot less important than I think.”

“I do not know how long the Grey Wardens chained me here; when I awoke the Imperium was in ruins, Thedas overrun by the _rattus_ and _soporati_.”

“I…” she began, but trailed off, for once lost for words, merely gawking at the man-creature as she tried to make sense of the situation. The only possible answer was that he was mad; perhaps the Reapers had experimented on him, twisting his appearance and mind until he had become… _this_. “Who are you?” Shepard asked tentatively. “Did the Reapers do this to you?”

“I am Corypheus, the High Priest of Dumat, and my prison was the Wardens’ doing.”

“Wardens? Is that what you call the Reapers—er, the big machines?”

“Machines?”

“Yeah, the things in the sky that look a bit like giant metal shrimp. _Bazzzzah_!” she exclaimed, a poor imitation of a Reaper’s beam, and now he was looking at her like she was mad. “No? Oh, this _is_ very weird.”

“I tire of this,” he said, a menacing tone to his voice now, pulling Shepard to her feet and looming over her. “You will tell me how you breached the Fade. You _will_ tell me how you came to be here!” he demanded, spindly fingers tightening around her wrist, and if she hadn’t come off the back of defeating the Reapers she might have even been scared.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

“You must know,” he hissed, although there was a tinge of desperation in his words. “You are a mage, are you not?”

“Like, magic? I’m a biotic,” she offered, and when that word meant nothing she demonstrated; she threw her hands down, forming a simple shield over her body. It glowed blue in the dim light, illuminating his features even more clearly, his disfigurement even more haunting in the pale light.

“This is no magic I have seen before,” he murmured. “You are strong. You would be… useful to me.”

“That sounds vaguely ominous."

“Join me as I try once more to breach the Fade and claim the Black City for my own. You will have power, and wealth, and—”

“Look,” Shepard raised a hand, and Corypheus looked affronted at being cut off by her. “Whatever you’re trying to do sounds… creepy, although probably a little exciting, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I need to find my friend and somehow make it back to Alliance HQ. What continent are we even on?”

“This is Thedas, but--”

“Oh. Alright then. What planet are we even on?” Corypheus looked as though he was too angry to even respond, nostrils flaring, and Shepard sighed. “I don’t know why I’m bothering. Which way is out?”

“You will not leave.”

The moment the words left his mouth he raised his hands, white light pouring out of them and locking her in place; Shepard couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink, could only marvel at whatever strange biotics the man was using. The air was pushed from her lungs for an excruciating moment as she felt herself being lifted from the floor; it seemed to last an age, until eventually he cast his hands back down, sending her crashing to the floor and gasping for air.

“You have a choice; join me or be crushed under my heel,” he said, stalking towards her again, her mind whirring as she hastily cobbled together a plan. Two doors, one ajar behind her foe, the other nearer but shut, which risked it being locked. A dilapidated bookcase, piled with tattered books which looked untouched for an age. Sconces all around her. No guns, and her omni was shattered, but there were two long daggers hung ornamentally on the wall by the locked door, and though she hadn’t fought with weapons like that since her sparring days at N-school it was better than nothing. Finally, an enemy who was growing closer, and who seemed to have no knowledge of how her biotics worked.

All of this information she took in by time Corypheus had taken two strides, but he was still too close for comfort now. Shepard pushed herself to her feet once more, sticking her hand out as though to shake his. An awful, twisted smile warped Corypheus’s mouth, and he clasped her hand in return.

“I hate it when there’s only two options,” Shepard noted, and then she made her move; she Charged, hitting Corypheus square in the chest. He flew backwards, crashing to the ground, and as time slowed around her she didn’t waste a millisecond. First she grabbed the daggers from the wall, and though her armour wasn’t equipped to holster them she’d sort that out later. As Corypheus let out a strangled cry she threw herself at the closed door, endlessly grateful that it was unlocked, and hurtled through it into a stairwell. She threw a biotic barrier over the door; it would only last whilst she was close by, but it was better than nothing. She could already hear Corypheus clattering around the room, time having regained its normal pace, and she couldn’t waste it by dithering. There only one thing for it; she fled, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving the door rattling behind her.

\---

If there was one thing Shepard was good at, it was running.

Really, Shepard had made a career out of running. She’d run and hid from the batarians who invaded her home, and that had started it all; the wide-eyed and afraid sixteen year old who’d watched her entire world fall apart was seen as _brave_ rather than the quivering wreck she knew she’d been. Then at Akuze, when she’d ran, as her squad was torn asunder behind her, she was hailed as a hero - the _sole survivor_ \- hardy and determined and something to be praised rather than pitied. She’d done a lot of running with the Normandy, too; from bombs and from Reapers and from exploding star systems, until finally she was running _to_ her enemy, gun raised as she approached that final beam towards her ultimate goal.

Really, running suited her. Running was easy. Running was _fun_ ; the pound of feet on hard ground, the rush of wind through hair, that moment when both feet were in the air and it almost felt like flying. And most of all, the way the mind seemed to clear, thoughts vanishing as though they were swept away by the wind and dust, leaving a beautiful blank canvas for the mind to focus purely on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. For such a little person, Shepard was awfully good at running.

It was no surprise, therefore, that Shepard managed to outrun Corypheus; she had no idea where she was running to, but that didn’t matter as long as she was running away. She ran through sprawling chasms and narrow corridors, sometimes forced to fight new monsters that looked somewhat like Corypheus, but which refused to talk to her, not once seeing so much as a sliver of natural light. She was underground, she knew that much, and so she focused on running _up_ as much as possible, but as she eventually began to tire it all seemed futile. She’d escaped the creature below her, but now she was stuck without food and water, and a slow death from thirst didn’t seem any better than what Corypheus had offered her. At least that would have been quick.

Tired, hungry, hopelessly lost, and sure she’d already seen the stone carving she now stood by, the truth of the situation began to set in as she slowed to a walk and then stopped. Nothing made much sense about where she was; all she knew was that she’d been on the Citadel one moment, and then the next she was stuck in some medieval cave with a creature who’d never heard of the Reapers. She feared, desperately, for Liara, who was also somewhere in these warrens; she forced herself to remember that caves and old things were her speciality, and told herself she was probably having the time of her life down here.

If she wasn’t dead.

She crushed that thought as soon as it bubbled up, placing it in the little metal box at the back of her mind in which she’d already stuffed her crew and the Geth. There was a problem at hand, and whilst she remained focused on that she could forget all the missteps which had led her to this point. Liara could survive this; she’d had worse the first time they had met, and for longer. 

“Hail,” a voice sounded behind her, shaking her from her reverie, and Shepard pivoted, raising her daggers quickly and cursing herself for stopping running. It was not Corypheus who spoke now, however; before her stood a thin man, long dark hair and fancy armour and— was he carrying a _bow and arrow_? He raised his hands in surrender, eyeing her weapons warily. “I mean you no harm, my Lady,” he said, voice low and gravelly, and why was he speaking like he’d just jumped out of some 19th century novel? 

“What kind of armour is that?” was, for some reason, her first question; it was _bizarre_ , blue fabric and shining steel, archaic but undoubtedly sturdy, and the soldier in her was unbearably curious about it. The man chuckled.

“Have you never met a Grey Warden, my Lady?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No. Heard of you though. You’ve managed to royally piss off someone else down here.”

“The Grey Wardens have a habit of doing that. I trust we haven’t invoked your ire?”

“Not yet.” She regarded him for a moment; he was certainly more normal looking than Corypheus, and he seemed to be far more genial, but, with ancient armour and a bow and arrow, that didn’t mean he wasn’t also mad. “Where am I?”

“I’m not entirely sure; there are few markers left to show where these roads once led. We’re deep, deeper than many—”

“Deep _where_?” she cut him off, exasperated.

“Somewhere between Kirkwall and Starkhaven, I believe.” Shepard let out a frustrated groan, and the man raised his eyebrows. “My answer does not please you, my Lady.”

“Firstly, you can stop calling me a _Lady_ , because I’m a Commander. And secondly no, it does not. Can you please just tell me what planet I’m on?”

The man laughed again, but it was a nervous laugh this time, and Shepard saw his grip tighten on his bow. “What other planet is there?”

“But—you’re human!” Shepard spluttered. “You were either born on Earth or your parents were—are you messing with me?!”

His brow puckered in sympathy, taking a tentative step closer and placing a hand on her forearm. “I don’t think you’re well. Have you been in contact with darkspawn blood?”

“Is that what you call those weird creatures? A bit got on my armour, but none on my skin.”

“Well—good,” he said, visibly relieved. “Still, perhaps you should rest a while, my—Commander.”

Shepard shook his grip off, becoming frustrated once more. “I don’t need to rest; I need to find my friend. Have you seen an Asari down here?”

“An Asari?”

She shouldn’t have expected anything different, but his answer still made her want to scream. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake. Just—forget it. Do you at least know how to get out of here?”

“I have maps, but perhaps you ought to stay with me until—”

“I promise you that I can manage better without you. Can I see those maps? Please?”

He looked at her for a long moment and then, either deciding it was a harmless request or deciding that refusing her would only bring more trouble, he rummaged around his pack, producing several large scrolls. Shepard unrolled them on the ground, instantly getting to work on committing the warrens to memory.

“I cannot permit you to keep these.”

“I don’t need to keep them; I’ll have it remembered in a sec,” Shepard replied, hands over her ears as she called on N7’s memory training. At N-school they’d had to recall lists of twenty digits to deactivate a bomb, and successfully infiltrate a fake party by committing useless facts on the guests to memory. After several minutes, the maps were memorised as though they were scorched on her retinas. She quickly bundled the maps together once more, handing them back to the man with a smile; he accepted them, regarding her with some bemusement.

“You are a very strange woman.”

“I get that a lot,” she shrugged. “Looking at those I make it a twenty hour hike until the nearest exit. You staying down here, then?”

“Indeed; I must find my colleagues before I can leave.”

“Well - see you around,” Shepard said, giving him an awkward pat on the shoulder before resuming a light jog in the direction she figured was the correct one.

“Wait!” the man called behind her, and though she didn’t slow down she did look over her shoulder back at him. “I didn’t catch your name, my Lady!”

“It’s Shepard. And it’s Commander!” she told him, before turning to face the path ahead once again.

It wasn’t until nineteen and a half hours later, when Shepard finally saw daylight, that she realised she hadn’t asked the Grey Warden’s name. Unfortunately for him, with what she knew lay even deeper below the ground, it meant that she probably never would know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for reading! I'm a long-time writer but this is the first story I've ever had the guts to post, so comments and suggestions are hugely appreciated! I have a lot of the story mapped out already (fair warning: it's long) so I should be updating fairly regularly :) Also I'm on tumblr so come say hi at agentkatie.tumblr.com :)


	2. Chapter 2

Knight-Captain Cullen was in trouble.

The patrol along the Wounded Coast had seemed a straightforward one. Reports of a single apostate at large in the area had reached the Knight-Commander, and Meredith had suggested using it as a training exercise; a lone apostate would present a challenge - but not an unmanageable one - to the Knight-Captain and three of the best Templar recruits. Those recruits currently lay slain at his feet as Cullen fought with all his might against the Tal-Vashoth he had not anticipated.

Cullen was a seasoned fighter, of course; the four Tal-Vashoth already dead by his hand were testament to that. But the eight still left were proving to be a challenge. Shield bash, assault, a quick cleanse to stop that qunari mage from getting the better of him, and another one fell, but it still wasn’t enough; they were closing in rapidly now, forcing him to defend rather than attack. He glanced around the area, heart plummeting as he realised he had no means whatsoever of escape; he was either going to have to fight his way out, or die trying.

The dying seemed more likely. 

A pike struck him _just_ in the wrong spot, wedging itself in his flank beneath his chest plate, and he cried out as white-hot pain coursed through him; he only narrowly blocked a second pike with his shield, but as he looked down at his side he realised it was already too late. The pike was wedged deep – even if he managed to fight them all off, he’d never make it back to Kirkwall before bleeding out. Still, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Another swing of his sword, and another, and somehow he felled another of the savages, but then something very hard struck the back of his head and his vision erupted in stars. He fell to the ground, immediately trying to stand because he was _not_ going to die on his knees, but he was struck again, and this time he couldn’t get up; could only squint out and see the blurred outline of the biggest of the Qunari approaching him with his maul. He bowed his head, finally defeated, finally broken, awaiting the killing blow. _Any second now. One, two… three…_

_Four…_

A loud cry interrupted his counting; he looked up once more to find the Tal-Vashoth now on his knees, fruitlessly grasping at the pike that had been run through his chest. No, that couldn’t be right. Cullen shook his head, blinking rapidly to try and focus his vision, and he heard another cry – a higher pitched, ferocious sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His head swung round, trying to locate the source, eyes widening as he found it. Or rather, her.

In any other circumstances he would have jumped to his feet, rushing to protect the small human woman who now darted between warriors twice her size. But even if he could’ve stood, it _really_ didn’t look like she needed his help. She practically danced through the group, each swipe of her daggers beautifully choreographed despite the heavy armour she wore, dispatching the men with such grace and precision that she made it look like an art form. She spun, long auburn braid whipping across her face, eyes narrowing and locking on her next target, two knives soaring through the air and embedding in a Tal-Vashoth’s head with startling accuracy. Four were dead in a matter of seconds.

Her gaze landed on him, their eyes locking, and he knew he ought to be embarrassed at his pitiful state but he really couldn’t focus on anything other than her face. She was young – his age, or perhaps a year or two older – mouth thin-lipped with determination, freckled cheeks spoilt by spatters of blood, and those eyes. _Those eyes._ The darkest of browns, with a long scar bisecting the left, but warm and wide, an intimation of softness even when surrounded by carnage.

Maker, he must be dying. But if it were the end, it wasn’t a bad view to die with. 

She called out to him, but the words were a garbled mess to his slowly fading mind. She called again, louder he thought this time, but it still went over his head; she grit her teeth and threw her hands out in front of her, sending out a large pulse of energy which threw the Tal-Vashoth high into the air. 

That brought him rapidly back to reality.

She clenched her fists, motioning downward with them and sending the Tal-Vashoth crashing back to the ground, quickly making her way round the twitching bodies to impale them a final time with her daggers. Her eyes fell on him again, and she stepped over the bodies towards him; he did his best to move away from her, shuffling backwards on his hands like a wounded animal. Perhaps, perhaps, he had a little left in him – he closed his eyes, willing the lyrium in his veins to burst to life, but it was no use; he was already exhausted. She knelt down in front of him, her face swimming into view with more clarity than previously, her brow furrowed in – Maker, that couldn’t be concern, could it?

“Shh, shh; it’s alright,” he heard her say, a distant echo that bounced about his mind, but he shook his head, summoning all his remaining nerve.

“Stay—stay back—” he managed to force back, but she ignored him, her attention turning to the wound in his side and the steadily growing puddle of blood underneath him. _So much blood_. The pike had dislodged at some point, and even in his current foggy state he could see that the wound there was deep; too deep to survive. He flinched as the woman withdrew some pouch from her armour; opening it, she poured a strange, jelly-like substance on Cullen’s side, before placing her hand over the wound. He tried weakly to push her off – _not now, not blood magic, not after all this time_ – but she was far too strong and he too weak. All that was left was for him to close his eyes and hope she would make it quick.

His side began to burn under her fingers, warmth spreading across his abdomen and up to his chest. It wasn’t actually that bad, he thought dimly; it felt comfortable, almost soothing. _Soothing_ , he repeated to himself. That did not sound like blood magic. His eyes snapped open, finding his vision much clearer, realising as he looked on at the woman that she was using some strange sort of healing magic, and why in the Void was this apostate trying to heal him? Did she not realise who he was? Or was she hoping he’d go easy on her for saving his life?

If it was the latter, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

“You’ll have a bit of a scar, I’m afraid,” she said, her voice clear for the first time; her accent was strange, similar to that of dwarves he’d met, with an undeniable confidence in her tones. “Come on, get up,” she said, dusting off her knees as she stood before offering her hand to him. He eyed it dubiously. What sort of trick was this? “Or are you just going to lie there all day?” she asked when he refused to move, arching an eyebrow at him. Reluctantly, he accepted her hand, and she pulled him from the ground with surprising strength for a mage – _an apostate_ , he reminded himself furiously. “Ugh, so much blood,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she looked down at her blood-soaked hands. “I’m just going to borrow your skirt…” she said, plucking at the fabric of his armour and attempting to wipe her hands on it. He pulled away from her viciously.

“Get off me, mage!”

“Well, that’s gratitude for you!” she exclaimed, a smile working its way onto her lips that dropped immediately as she inspected his face closer. “I’m sorry I didn’t arrive in time to save your friends,” she said, sounding genuinely troubled by the death of the three Templar recruits. Cullen narrowed his eyes at her.

“What game are you playing here?”

She blinked, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“You must realise I am a Templar.”

She gave him a sweeping look up and down, appearing thoughtful for a moment. “Huh. It’s weird how things like that travel. I’m Shepard,” she said, and he flinched as she stuck her hand out towards him. “And I don’t bite,” she said, hand still outstretched; he realised suddenly she meant for him to shake it, and what kind of mage ever tried to actually shake a Templar’s hand?!

“Do you know what a Templar is?”

The woman – _apostate_ – called Shepard shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Religious knights, something about Crusades… um… guard the Holy Grail…”

“And hunt down apostate mages?”

“Ah,” she said simply, and he could see the pieces click into place in her mind as she glanced again at his armour, though she still showed no fear. “Well, I’m not a mage. I’m a biotic. Totally different.”

“I do not care what you call yourself; you’re an apostate with dangerous magic, and it’s my duty to stop you.”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to do that, because I just saved your life. Also, because I just took them down eight-on-one,” she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the nearest Tal-Vashoth. “A wise man wouldn’t take those odds.”

“I do not wish to harm you,” Cullen told her, surreptitiously moving closer to his sword as he spoke. “If you come without a struggle then—”

“Come where, exactly?”

“The Gallows at Kirkwall – our Circle.”

“You expect me to come voluntarily to a place called _the Gallows_?” she asked, amusement clear in her voice. “I think I’ll pass. Besides, I have to find my friend. So I’ll catch you—” 

She cut off abruptly as Cullen made his move, grabbing his sword and pointing it at her throat in a fraction of a second. “Well, that’s just rude,” she noted, still – Maker, _still_ – not showing any hint of worry. “Fine, then how about this; I’ll come to your Gallows, on one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“You have to catch me first.”

In hindsight, he should have anticipated her move, should have acted quicker; but he was still drained from the previous battle, and so unable to conjure the necessary force in time to combat the pulse of energy that sent him flying to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, gritting his teeth as he saw the woman pelting across the coast, and he was sure he could see her smiling even as she ran from him. He picked up his weaponry again, hooking his shield on his back as he began his pursuit, ignoring the dull ache of his muscles as he pressed ahead.

In hindsight, he should have acquired back-up. But her words had been too much of a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned the wonderful [olgasartblog](http://olgasartblog.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for some art based on this chapter - [ check out how pretty it is!](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/160669902965/olgasartblog-commissioned-work-from))


	3. Chapter 3

And so Shepard was running again.

She was disappointed in the Templar’s reaction to her; she would have at least liked a bit of help to pay her back for saving his life, if not the gushing thanks she usually received from people saved by Commander Shepard. But there’d been fear in his eyes, and hatred, and she didn’t understand it; many people were afraid of biotics, for reasons which ranged from misunderstanding to jealousy, but they usually got over it when said biotics saved their skin. He’d honestly looked like he would’ve preferred to die than to be saved by her abilities, wanting to imprison her for having the audacity to rescue him. At least she could say his reaction was a new experience.

She could have just killed him, of course, but that seemed awfully wasteful after using her last medigel on him. And besides, there was something fun about a chase.

She had to give him credit; she thought he’d give up easily, what with being injured and drained from his fight, but over the following days he tracked her with dogged determination. She thought she’d given him the slip several times, only to see him approaching her once more over a hill or round a bend. She’d had to run flat out on more than one occasion to put some distance between them, and if his armour hadn’t been so much heavier than hers he would’ve caught her several times over. He must have slept at some point, but Shepard sure didn’t know when. She managed to get by with half an hour’s catnap here and there, but by five days in it had taken its toll; she was exhausted, muscles aching from the journey and barely-healed wounds from the Crucible itching underneath her clothes, and all the while he was on her heels. She would have been impressed with his stamina if it wasn’t so frustrating. 

But the top priority was not escaping the Templar, she kept reminding herself, but finding Liara. Thus she focused on finding towns, where someone might’ve seen Liara, but avoided the roads as much as she could, favouring rocky slopes and the cover of trees to better avoid her soldier friend. The two little villages she’d come across were positively medieval and, after locating the town taverns and enquiring as innocuously as she could about any other visitors they’d had (focusing on strange, but mentioning neither blue nor hair tentacles), she moved on again before they could grow suspicious and burn her as a witch. When exhaustion finally threatened to overwhelm her, she slept almost four hours in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of one of the towns, awaking with a jolt in the early hours of the morning with the image of the Normandy burning in her mind.

A week into the journey, and the initial entertainment she’d felt in the chase had completely evaporated. In addition, she was no closer to finding Liara or discovering where she was, and that was endlessly frustrating. She’d established by now that this wasn’t Earth; it was too green, no roadways, skyways or cities as far as the eye could see, and certainly no signs of the destruction the Reapers had wrought. In truth, it didn’t look like anything she’d seen outside of history books on civilisations long since dead. The possibilities ranged from implausible to downright insane; her mind ran circles around itself, with theories of cryostasis, parallel universes and stress-induced psychosis batting off the inside walls of her skull, refusing to let her rest even when she did attempt to sleep. She only knew two things for certain about the strange place she’d found herself in; firstly, that the stars were different here, and secondly, that she was _very_ far from home.

\---

It was, therefore, only inevitable that the Templar would catch up with her eventually; she was simply _exhausted_ , beyond thinking smart or running fast. She wished she could spin a tale about it, how she valiantly fought him off only to be overwhelmed by brute strength and exhaustion, but the truth was woefully more embarrassing than that. He’d cornered her, as she stopped by a river desperate for a drink, and when she’d tried to use her biotics to Throw him away she just _couldn’t_ , completely sapped of all energy and power. She stuck her daggers out in front of her, a form of defence rather than attack, but he easily batted them away, and the next thing she knew she was face-down in the dirt, shouting all manner of threats and obscenities at the man as he cuffed her hands behind her back.

“For the love of Andraste, will you _stop wriggling_?” he grumbled, knees in the small of her back as she struggled against him. “You’re just making this harder for yourself.”

“I’m making this harder for _you_ ,” she said, attempting to push herself off the floor using her abdomen, but his knees merely pinned her down harder in response. “I saved your life! This is how you repay me?!”

“I’m repaying you by not killing you, which I’m perfectly entitled to do after you ran from me.”

“How are you going to kill me? You couldn’t even kill a couple of guys with spears for weapons. They didn’t even have armour.”

“ _Shut. Up_ ,” he hissed, finally managing to get a hold of her wrists; he clapped on a set of manacles, and Shepard could feel that they covered her entire hands - probably a wise move, on his part. “There. Get up.”

“Ask nicely,” she retorted, rolling onto her back as she felt the pressure on her disappear; the Templar glowered at her, and it looked as though he was sorely tempted to kill her after all.

“ _Please_ get up,” he forced through gritted teeth, and even she knew better than to antagonise him further; she pushed herself up to standing, and he locked his hand around her arm.

“You don’t need to hold onto me,” she said, trying to shrug him off, but his grip remained tight. “Even if I do try to run, I’m not going to get any further than ten feet.”

“Bearing in mind I’ve tracked you for nearly a hundred miles - I’m not going to take that chance.”

Shepard couldn’t help but grin at that, proud of her own ability to get so far in such a sorry state. “You could’ve given up at any time.”

“No, I couldn’t. Come on - we should be able to make the nearest village by nightfall.”

\---

The Templar was not one for talking.

Of course, that didn’t surprise Shepard; he seemed so annoyed by her mere presence that she was hardly expecting to hear his life story. But _something_ would be nice. Shepard wasn’t good with prolonged silences; they always made her feel uneasy, the absence of noise deafening, and she would rush to fill the gaps with anything she could. Noise was good; she’d grown up in a house full of noise, of laughter and shouting and the occasional fistfight. The Normandy, too, had been alive with the buzzings of her crew as they played cards and planned missions and, when the mood struck, drank heavily into the night. Quiet, in her experience, had always been bad. Her family’s funeral, the memorial on Akuze, that suffocating moment when she’d been spaced from the first Normandy; the silence had cut her like a knife, and she’d wanted to scream, to shout, to do _something_ that would break the tension and stop her thoughts from being the loudest thing in the room.

“What’s your name?” she ventured after some time. He didn’t reply, and if it wasn’t for the twitch of his jaw she would’ve thought that he hadn’t even heard her. “Come on, you could at least tell me your name.”

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” he offered gruffly, and Shepard rolled her eyes.

“Well, if we’re using titles, I’ll have to insist you call me Commander.” That got his attention; his head snapped towards her, frowning at her words.

“How exactly are _you_ a Commander?”

“I have a ship.” _Had_. “Somewhere. What’s your first name?”

He looked away again, focusing all his attention on the path in front of him, and she was surprised that he actually answered her. “Cullen _is_ my first name.”

“Oh, that’s… nice,” she said, knowing she sounded anything but convincing; he made a noncommittal grunt, but said nothing else. “What’s your surname?”

“Rutherford.”

“Oh, I like Rutherford,” she said, honestly now. “Rutherford’s a no-nonsense name. You’ve got Ernest Rutherford, without him there wouldn’t—”

“Is this talk entirely necessary?” he cut her off.

“It’s either this or I start playing travel games. So what did you do to become a Knight-Captain?”

“I _didn’t_ engage in pointless smalltalk with apostates.”

Shepard sighed, knowing a lost cause when she saw one. This was going to be a long journey. 

“Forgive me; that was… rude,” he mumbled, voice softer than before; he rubbed the back of his neck, now looking down at his feet. “I - er… I assume Shepard is your surname?” he suggested, an olive branch that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Yep.”

“What is your first name?”

Shepard grimaced at the inevitable question, briefly considering lying to him - but if he started referring to her by some false first name, the trip was truly going to become unbearable.

“It’s just Shepard.”

He looked at her again, frowning once more. “That hardly seems fair,” he said. “I told you mine.”

“It’s nothing personal,” she shrugged. “I just…I haven’t been called it since I was about sixteen.” He regarded her sceptically, and she continued to explain. “Seriously, my best friends don’t even call me by my first name. Hell, I’m not sure they even _know_ my first name.”

“Very well,” he nodded. “Shepard.” His words were curt, with an air of finality to them, but Shepard wasn’t ready to give up yet; even if she didn’t just wish to fill the silence, there was still information she needed to get from him.

“So tell me about ‘The Gallows’. It sounds like a fun place.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he shrugged. “It is the Circle at Kirkwall. Knight-Commander Meredith is in charge. She runs a tight ship, but Kirkwall is not a city where one can afford to be lenient.”

“So what is it, a prison?”

“How is it possible you have never heard of Circles or Templars?” Something seemed to dawn on him, and the colour drained from his already pallid face as his hand twitched for his sword. “Maker’s breath; are you a Witch of the Wilds?”

Shepard made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat. “I don’t have the first clue what that is, but it sounds like a story made up to scare kids. ‘Be good or the Witch of the Wilds will come take you away!’. I’m not a Witch; I’m a biotic and a _Commander_.”

“You can call yourself what you want; you’re still an apostate,” he told her severely. He’d used that word before, _apostate_ ; he practically spat it, as though everything in him fought against it, and she didn’t understand what he meant by it. An illegal ‘mage’, she assumed, and she could barely even think the word without rolling her eyes. It was terribly medieval, to mistake biotics for magic, though it was curious too; she highly doubted these people had developed bio-amps yet, so natural aptitude for biotics had to be significantly higher than on Earth to cause such fear. “The Circle is a place for mages to hone their craft in safety,” he said, calmer now as he broke her reverie. “It is not a prison, nor a punishment.”

“But it’s not voluntary,” Shepard surmised. The Templar said nothing. “And what if I’ve already honed my craft?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You think you have nothing left to learn?”

“Nothing that you can teach me.”

He shook his head with a disparaging scoff, looking thoroughly unamused. “Arrogance will get you nowhere in the Circle; I’ll give you that lesson for nothing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having pride in your abilities.”

“ _And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought, and despaired_.” She supposed that was meant to sound deep and philosophical, but it only served to make him sound conceited.

“I’m going to take it as a compliment that you think I’m powerful enough to bring on the apocalypse.”

“That’s clearly _not_ how I intended it,” he scowled. “If you have sincere questions about Kirkwall or the Circle, I will answer them. If not, I would prefer we stay silent.”

There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask, but her tired mind couldn’t quite sift through them to find the most pertinent ones; _where are we_ was still up there, along with _where’s Earth, where’s my ship, what happened to the Reapers,_ but she doubted the Templar could provide her with useful insight on any of those points. She was gradually reaching the conclusion that she’d never figure out what this place was, and she supposed that was something she’d just have to accept; besides, she was too exhausted to fight with that uncertainty anymore. She was going to Kirkwall, in Thedas, and that would have to be the extent of her knowledge. 

She pursed her lips together, absentmindedly whistling a half-tune, a habit she’d picked up so long ago that she barely realised she did it anymore. It wasn’t until the Templar grumbled an exasperated ‘ _Maker’s breath_ ’ that she realised she was even making a noise; smirking, she wet her lips before continuing, a decibel louder than before.


	4. Chapter 4

They arrived at a nearby village just as the sun was setting; unfortunately it was too small for a Chantry, and so Cullen had to make do with seeking out shelter at the local tavern. The apostate Shepard had run so far that she’d almost reached Tantervale, and Cullen had never had been so far north before; it was much warmer than he’d been used to in Ferelden or Kirkwall, and his skin prickled uncomfortably beneath his armour.

“Taking me for drinks?” Shepard asked as she glanced up the tavern sign. “ _The Skull and Bones_ ; sounds reputable.”

“Unless you want to run to Kirkwall nonstop – which still take a week – we need somewhere to stay for the evening. In the morning we’ll try and procure some horses.”

“I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“Then you’ll have to learn quickly,” he said bluntly, checking her hands were firmly locked in placed and covered by her manacles before taking hold of her arm and leading her into the tavern. 

The merriment of the establishment died down the moment they stepped in the building; the customers stepped back as the made their way towards the bar, murmuring to each other as the pair passed. Cullen’s grip on Shepard’s arm instinctively tightened.

“Everyone’s looking at me like I’m contagious,” Shepard hissed.

“They’re not used to seeing people like you,” he muttered back. “You need to behave in here, for your own sake.”

“ _Pfft_. I’d like to see them try anything.”

“I am _serious_ —”

“Hello, ser!” the barman called across to them, breaking the tension in the room, and reluctantly the other patrons of the bar began to start talking again, though they still watched Shepard from the corners of their eyes. “Not often we get Templars in here. Taking this one back to the Circle?”

“That’s right, serah. We’re looking for a room, if you have one.”

“Er, we’re looking for _two_ rooms,” Shepard corrected, and Cullen felt the back of his neck prickle with irritation; what right did this apostate have to contradict him in front of other people?

“I am _not_ taking my eyes off of you,” he growled, and she looked up at him defiantly.

“I don’t spend my nights tied up in rooms with strange men, Knight-Captain. Call me a prude, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, knowing by her smirk that he was already blushing, but the barman got there first.

“You ought to show your betters a bit more respect, mage. You know what happens to mages who can’t hold their tongue, right?”

“Are you threatening me?” Shepard asked, mouth quirking up in amusement. “Because last time I checked, I have an innate ability to manipulate the fabric of the universe, and _you_ have a dishcloth.”

The bartender went very pale at that, the mug he was cleaning slipping from his hand and smashing on the floor. “That is _enough_ ,” Cullen growled at her, but she merely tutted.

“He started it! People are very rude here.”

“I apologise for her, serah. If you’re still serving food, we’ll take some of that too.”

“Aye, we are. I’ll get something brought up to you.”

“What have you got?” Shepard asked him, and the barman narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’ll have stew, and you’ll like it,” the barman snapped. “Shall I show you up to the room now, ser?”

Five minutes later, the pair were sat in their cramped quarters, eating their meal in silence. Shepard had, utterly predictably, tried to use her magic against him the moment he removed her shackles; he’d quickly cancelled her abilities, much to her indignation, then tied her leg to the table for good measure. As such, rather than filling the silence with humming or mindless chatter she now seemed content to sulk, frowning at her meal as she pushed bits of chicken around her bowl.

“Are you actually going to eat that?” he asked when the silence became too much for even him to bear; she looked up at him, still frowning, and he withered slightly under her gaze.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, finishing his meal and pushing his bowl to one side. His eyes settled on the room’s bed; a rickety-looking thing that seemed barely big enough for one person. He sighed. She was a mage, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be chivalrous.

“You may – er – have the bed,” he offered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You take the bed; I don’t care,” she muttered, attention back on her congealing stew once more.

“No, I insist—”

“I’m not going to be doing any sleeping, Knight-Captain.”

He considered her for the moment, the strangest sense of guilt beginning to develop in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it was inappropriate, for them to be sharing a room like this. If it were a male mage, he wouldn’t have thought twice about keeping watch on them overnight, but the fact that Shepard was a young woman (and a pretty one, he tried not to think) made him uncomfortable. He cursed himself again for not sending word for backup when he'd had the chance; what he would’ve given right now to be relieved, to try to get some sleep – but the fact was, he wasn’t going to be doing much sleeping either, with a mage in the room.

“I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” he said, trying to sound non-threatening, but she merely glowered at her food.

“Yeah, well, too late,” she mumbled, then screwed her eyes up as she pushed her bowl away from her. “God, why can’t you just let me go? Why is one, meaningless person worth so much trouble?”

“Because one person with magic could destroy an entire city, if they wished,” Cullen responded curtly, already sounding much colder.

“I don’t wish it. Just because someone possesses an ability doesn’t mean they’re going to use it.”

“No, but the potential is still there, and people need to be protected from that.”

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe I’m having this argument all over again,” she muttered to herself before looking him straight in the eye, face set in determination and eyes burning with ferocity. “Listen up, because I’m only going to say this to you once. It doesn’t matter what you’re born – mage, peasant, human, turian, whatever. What matters are your actions. Magic in itself doesn’t make you a monster – believe me, some of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met didn’t have an ounce of magic in their veins. You, Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford, are just as capable of murder and destruction as I am. And if you can’t see past magic and recognise that there’s a person underneath it, then I truly pity you. It must be awful to live with such hatred in your heart.”

The words struck Cullen far too deeply; he clenched his fists, furious at the mage’s judgement of him. “I became a Templar to help people,” he muttered, struggling to keep his voice level.

“All people, or just those without magic?”

“ _All_ people,” he said firmly.

“Well, for the record – you rounding me up like a stray dog? Not the kind of help I need.” She pushed back from the table, making to stand, but stumbled. She glanced down, gritting her teeth and making a sound suspiciously like a growl as she realised she was still tied to the table. “Untie me. I’m trying to storm off dramatically.”

“To where?”

“ _To the bed_ ,” she hissed as Cullen moved to untie her, keeping his eyes on her hands the whole time. “Goddamnit, if the Alliance could see me now…”

Cullen ignored her mutterings, neither knowing nor caring who the Alliance were. The moment her ties were loosened she yanked herself free of the table, marching over to the bed and furiously shedding pieces of her armour, throwing her vambraces and shoulderguards onto the bed with very little ceremony.

“And I’m never going to be able to repair this,” she grumbled as she unbuckled her chestplate, scowling at it before discarding it also. “Seventy-five thousand creds on an ablative VI and it gets wrecked by barbarians with pointy sticks.”

It hadn’t occurred to Cullen until that moment just how strange her armour was; under the battered coating was tough metal which managed to be both durable and non-restrictive, the joints sliding with complete ease, allowing a freedom of movement that Templar armour sorely lacked. A warrior’s armour, but with the manoeuvrability of a rogue’s. He’d assumed she’s scavenged it, for no mage he knew wore such heavy plates out of choice, but now it occurred to him that wasn’t the case; it fitted her so perfectly that it could only ever have been made for her. What was more interesting than how she’d acquired it was _why_. He was sure that no simple blacksmith could manufacture such a specialised piece of equipment; it was clearly expensive, and its paintwork and _N7_ embellishment almost made it seem military, though it was of no organisation he recognised.

“This is very heavy armour for a mage,” Cullen commented, attempting to sound offhand.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Around.”

“It looks military,” Cullen persisted, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice now.

“You’re quite the detective. Let’s forget the fact I already told you I’m a Commander.”

“You told me you had a ship. I assumed you were either a pirate or lying.” She merely rolled her eyes, shrugging out of the armour’s backplate. “You _are_ lying. This is more advanced than any armour I’ve seen before; no organisation in Thedas, military or no, could afford to equip its soldiers with this.” 

“Believe whatever you want; it really doesn’t matter.” She kicked off her greaves, putting her hands on her hips to stare him down. Underneath the metal she wore a shirt and trousers of a form-fitting material which Cullen had never seen before, but what surprised Cullen more than the fabric was her build; she had _muscles_ , sinewy arms and strong legs, calves and biceps well-defined under the tight material. Maker; how did a _mage_ get muscles like that? “What are you looking at?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Nothing!” Cullen replied quickly, and then, attempting to regain his authority, “give me your hands. I need to put your manacles back on.”

Begrudgingly, Shepard stuck her hands out towards him, and he quickly snapped on the restraints, fully covering her hands once more. Next he used the rope to tether the manacles to the headboard of the bed, surprised that Shepard didn’t kick up more of a fuss about it; she merely sat cross-legged on the bed, glaring at him whilst he worked.

“There,” he said once he was finished. “Now is there anything I can get you?”

She looked at him as though he’d gone mad. “What could you possibly have to offer me?”

“Fine,” he sighed, trudging back over the table once more and taking a seat. “We’ll move early in the morning.”

“I can hardly wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biotics aren't magic, and Shepard isn't a mage, but there's an explanation for why Cullen's abilities can interfere with hers - and Shepard will find it out in due course. Until then I hope you continue to enjoy this story, thanks for all your feedback so far!


	5. Chapter 5

True to his word, the Knight-Captain started shuffling around the room a little before daybreak. That was good for Shepard; she’d been in and out of a fitful sleep, plagued by phantom children she couldn’t save, and the noise he created provided a good distraction from her dreams. She rose shortly following him and, after a brief argument as to whether Shepard was allowed her armour (which Shepard won, refusing point-blank to leave without it), they set off into the village in search of better transportation. The village was hardly big enough to be called even that; it was really just a few wooden huts and surrounding farmland. But farmland meant horses, and they quickly located a field with several of the creatures in.

“Wait outside,” the Knight-Captain told her as they reached the adjacent farmstead.

“What? No way! Let me come in. I’m great at negotiating discounts.”

“Not a chance,” Cullen grumbled, producing his rope once more and beginning to tether her to a nearby fence.

“You can’t tie me up outside his house!” Shepard protested, aghast. “I’m not a dog!”

“Then why do you keep yapping like one?”

Her mouth snapped shut at that, and she contented herself with glaring at him, mentally going through the best ways to get him back once her manacles were removed. A singularity would do a good job. He was apparently resistant to her frosty look, however, turning his back on her and knocking on the door with a distinct air of authority. A few moments later the door opened, and after some low words he was let inside.

The position he’d left her in was not particularly comfortable; the fence was too low for her hands, and so she was stooped over it from the tightness of the bindings. She knew there was no hope in getting out of them at the moment, and so she contented herself with peering out over the farmland, watching the animals that roamed there.

She’d never seen horses before. Of course, she’d seen them in vids, like those old Westerns her dad used to love, but never in real life; on Mindoir they’d had tractors to manage the land, and dune buggies to traverse the distances between crops, though she and her brothers had mainly used them for navigating homemade assault courses. In their town, at least, no horses had been imported; she wasn’t sure if there had been any on the entirety of the planet. That was a shame. There was something regal about the creatures, standing tall and proud amongst the pastures; she and her brothers might have had even more fun if they’d been able to race on _those_.

Several minutes later Cullen exited the house once more, looking particularly disgruntled. She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand to silence her before she’d even made a sound.

“Forget it,” he grumbled. “He’s demanding upfront payment for them, and it’s almost all the gold I have to hand. We’ll have horses, but nothing to eat for a week.”

Shepard couldn’t help but laugh at him, which only seemed to add to his irritation. “I thought Templars were meant to be respected.”

“They _are_ ,” he said petulantly, “but apparently ‘that means nothing when you’ve got mouths to feed’.”

“What exactly did you say to him?”

“What do you think I said? I told him I’m a Templar and I need two horses to get back to the Circle.” He frowned at the ground, a tinge of pink colouring his cheeks. “Templars should be able to requisition anything they need from civilians, but the blighted Marcher obviously has some issue with Fereldans and—ugh, forget it,” he mumbled, turning his attention to her bindings and beginning to untie her. She felt something almost resembling pity at his obvious embarrassment.

“Did you tell him I’m a mage?”

“No. I thought that’d put him off even more.”

“Good. Unshackle me,” she said, brandishing her hands at him. He looked at her dubiously, and she sighed, frustrated. “ _Trust me_. By the time I’m done he’ll be begging us to take his damn horses.”

“If you think I’m going to let you use your magic to—”

“Don’t be stupid; I’m going to negotiate. Just go along with whatever I say.” He hesitated, and she waved her hands at him again; with a nonsensical grumble he undid her manacles, and she flexed her hands in relief. She briefly considered ditching him right then and there, but she’d do much better at outrunning him with a horse, and to get one she needed his presence. “Right. Follow me.”

She threw the door open, storming into the little house. The man Cullen must have spoken to was sitting at his kitchen table; on their entrance he jumped up, glaring when he saw who had entered.

“You there!” Shepard barked, marching up to the man. “Am I to understand you refused to do business with my Knight-Captain?”

“ _Your_ Knight-Captain?” he asked, eyeing her critically. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“I am the Knight-Commander of The Gallows, and I demand to know the reason for your insubordination!”

“You’re… Knight-Commander Meredith?” the man asked, more surprised than disbelieving. “What’s the matter with your armour?”

“My armour? You dare question the armour of a Knight-Commander? This armour has saved me from more spells and curses than you’ve ever seen! Now where do we stand on those horses?”

He looked flustered for a moment, but managed to recover himself, drawing his shoulders up as he spoke. “I-I’m sorry, Knight-Commander, but if you haven’t got the gold, I can’t give you—”

“Damnit, man!” Shepard snapped, banging her fist on the table, and the man jumped backwards. “Do you not realise that we’re on the trail of a dangerous apostate? The man we’re pursuing has already slaughtered seventeen young girls on his rampage! Do you have children?”

“I-I – yes—”

“Then you should recognise the importance of catching this mage before more lives are lost! It is a matter of life and death!” She narrowed her eyes, taking a step closer towards the man, who looked sorely tempted to run away from her. “Or should I be suspicious that you’re impeding urgent Templar business?” She pointedly looked around the room before her eyes landed on the staircase. “Knight-Captain, search upstairs.” Cullen merely stood there, staring at her stupidly, and she groaned. “Did I stutter? Search upstairs!”

“Maker – please, just take the horses!” the man yelped, apparently too terrified to notice Cullen’s dumb expression. “There’s some tacked up in the stables round the back – take whichever two you want!”

“Thank you, serah,” Cullen said gratefully, and it was all Shepard could do not to roll her eyes. “We’ll be sure to return them, with gold to compensate—”

“Do not make such promises, Rutherford! This apostate could still murder us all!” 

She swept out of the little shop with as much authority as she could muster, the Knight-Captain almost running to keep up. When they were out of sight she turned back to grin at him, only to be met by a stony-faced glare.

“In what world was _that_ a negotiation?” he demanded.

“I talked our way into an acceptable outcome. I _negotiated_.”

“You terrified the poor man! I feel terrible.”

“Why? It was his own fault for not letting you have them. You need to be more authoritative.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he muttered as they reached the horses. Shepard’s pace slowed as she confronted the animals for the first time; they were much bigger up close than they had seemed in the field, towering over her, all powerful legs and thick manes. She wasn’t sure how she was even going to mount one, let alone control it. They seemed restless; some huffing, some pulling at their fastenings, some pacing on the spot, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching warily as Cullen approached them. He inspected them closely before selecting the two largest horses; one white, one brown.

“Here,” he said, offering her the white horse’s reigns; it looked particularly unhappy, tossing its mane occasionally and breathing loudly through its nose.

“I don’t want the white one. He looks angry.”

“This is a mare, and she’s grey. But fine,” he said, taking the declined horse back to her original place. “Which one would you prefer?”

She cast her eyes over the remaining horses; they were all large, but one was slightly smaller than the rest, a reddish-brown coloured horse which was chewing quite contentedly on a bale of hay.

“The auburn one.”

“Auburn? You mean the chestnut?” he asked, following her line of sight and approaching the horse in question.

“No, I mean the auburn one. As in the same colour hair as me.”

“I know, but in horses it’s called—you know what; it doesn’t matter,” he said, bringing the horse to her. “Here,” he said, handing her the reigns, and she tentatively accepted them. The horse turned its head towards her, as though expecting her to do something, its dark eyes boring into hers as though the stupid creature could tell she didn’t have the first clue what to do with it.

“Actually, I’m not convinced about this horse thing,” Shepard said, eyeing the creature dubiously.

“I am _not_ going back there to explain that we don’t need them,” Cullen said as he set about adjusting the saddle of his own horse.

“Then let’s just leave them.”

Cullen abandoned his horse’s equipment, looking up at her critically. “What’s the problem?” 

“I’m not sure I trust any means of transportation that can think for itself,” she said, tentatively reaching out and prodding its neck. It wasn’t as soft as she had suspected; its hair was coarse, and slightly dusty. 

“Have you never seen a horse before?”

“Of course I’ve seen a horse,” she snapped. “Just – well, not in the flesh. They didn’t bring any horses to my home pla—my hometown.” She prodded the creature it again, a little harder this time, and it tossed its mane in response.

“Don’t poke it! Just give it a pat.”

She reluctantly placed a palm on its neck, giving it three sharp pats before dropping her hand to her side. The Knight-Captain tutted, approaching her once more.

“Like this,” Cullen said, placing his own hand on the horse’s neck and firmly patting it in short strokes. She copied the gesture; the horse didn’t seem to even notice the move, and she supposed that was a good thing. “Good. Now grip onto the saddle and I’ll give you a leg up.”

“Er – no, I don’t think so.”

“Shepard, I’m done playing games,” the Knight-Captain told her, voice forceful. “Grab onto the saddle.”

“Actually, aren’t there any smaller ones?”

“I’m warning you—”

“God, fine!” she exclaimed as she reached up to the saddle. “When I said you need to be more authoritative I didn’t mean—aah!” she cried out, taken by surprise as Cullen grabbed her round the legs, hoisting her up in a most undignified manner; she belly-flopped onto the horse’s saddle, and quickly scrambled to get into a sitting position. No sooner had she righted herself than he snapped her manacles on once more, and she cursed herself for not acting quicker.

“Squeeze with your calves to go,” he instructed her. “Tap – gently – with your heels if that gets you nowhere. Left reign turns left, right reign turns right. Pull on both to stop.”

“And how am I supposed to do that with my chastity gloves on?”

He considered the reigns for a moment, then quickly set about fastening them to her wrists, looping them so they circled just above the manacles, unable to slip down over her hands. Once he had done that he set about adjusting her stirrups, and she let him get on with it, focussing her energy on maintaining her balance. The horse seemed to know what was coming next, pawing at the ground – or was it hoofing? – in anticipation of a journey, and the movement made her feel unsteady. Strange, how comfortable she felt miles above a planet’s surface in her ship, exhilarated looking down as the ground disappeared beneath her – but a six feet up on a horse, she felt terribly uneasy.

“Is this one a boy or a girl?” Shepard asked once Cullen was finished with her, jumping onto his own horse with an impressive amount of grace for a man in heavy armour.

“He’s a stallion.”

“You could just say ‘boy’.”

“Stallion is the correct term,” Cullen told her, tapping his horse gently with his feet; his horse started moving, and he steered onto the dirt footpath just by the house. Shepard gritted her teeth and did the same, but her horse didn’t move; she gave it a little kick instead, and it lurched forward far more violently than she was expecting. She instinctively put her hands out to grab hold of something, frustrated beyond belief on remembering that she was in his damn manacles again.

“I didn’t realise I was in the company of such a horse expert,” she muttered as she drew level with him, feeling no small amount of resentment at how poised and stable he looked on the creature.

“It’s common knowledge, Shepard,” he retorted gruffly.

“I know; I was being sarcastic. It must be really uncomfortable to ride with that stick up your ass.”

\---

Thankfully, the next village was bigger than the first, and thus had a Chantry for them to rest that night. Cullen was endlessly grateful for that; he was exhausted, both from the journey and Shepard’s constant chatter, and knew he needed to at least attempt a solid night’s rest to make sure she didn’t get the better of him. He’d realised by now that, despite her bravado and eccentricities, she was both an intelligent woman and a skilled fighter; after all, there weren’t many mages who could overpower a group of Qunari and then evade capture as well as she had. If she put her mind to it, and decided to launch an escape attempt, he knew she’d present something of a challenge to him; he therefore had to be fully prepared at all times, and could not allow his guard to be let down around her.

There was a quiet voice at the back of his mind - a voice which had been silent for much of the past seven years - that questioned _why_ he was going to such lengths to bring her back to the Circle. If he were a better man, he might have recognised the control that she had exhibited, might have acknowledged that he owed her a debt for saving his life, might have respected the fact that she’d not turned to blood magic to escape him. But he was not a better man; he was a Templar, and this was his duty. It didn’t matter that she probably wasn’t a threat, that she probably wasn’t a blood mage; it wasn’t a definitely, could never be a definitely, and so he needed to take whatever steps necessary to protect people.

The Chantry they sought refuge from was only small, much like the one he’d attended sermons at as a boy in Honnleath. They were shown in by a lay sister, who looked positively terrified, and Cullen was unsure whether it was because of him or Shepard.

“What is this place?” Shepard whispered as they approached the back room of the building. He did a double take, turning rapidly towards her with his mouth agape. “What?” she asked, frowning at his reaction. 

“Have you never been in a Chantry?”

“Nope. It looks religious. I’m assuming it is?”

“I—yes—but—” he stumbled to create a coherent sentence, unable to fully comprehend the implications behind her words. Even elves and dwarves, in his limited exposure to them, had some basic knowledge of the Maker and Andraste, even if they didn’t subscribe to the beliefs. But to be completely ignorant of the entire religion? Before he’d met her, he would’ve thought it unimaginable. 

He was still fumbling for a response as the lay sister introduced them to the Revered Mother; a typically old and grey woman, who smiled wanly at the both of them. She was flanked by two Templars, both in lighter armour than he, and who looked distinctly less impressed by the visitors.

“I am Knight-Captain Cullen of the Kirkwall Circle,” Cullen said by means of introduction. “I have with me an apostate who I’m bringing to the Gallows,” he said, indicating to Shepard, who waved at them with one manacled hand. “Would we be able to rest here tonight?”

“Of course, child,” the Revered Mother replied. “You’re a long way from Kirkwall.”

“I’m good at running,” Shepard piped up, and though Cullen knew he ought to be professional in front of the Mother he couldn’t help the disgruntled noise he made.

“Evidently not good enough,” one of the Templars retorted, and Shepard opened her mouth again to contradict him, but the Mother raised a hand, cutting them off before an argument could develop.

“We are all the Maker’s children here. Now, would either of you care for some supper?”

They ate in silence once more, Shepard seemingly fascinated by her surroundings; she spent the entirely of the meal intently inspecting the stained glass, only absent-mindedly chewing on her food, and Cullen was sure it must have been stone cold by the time she finished it. The other two Templars stood in the doorway and, though Cullen knew it was a gesture of support amongst comrades, there was something about the situation which made him uneasy; he felt he almost had to justify his reasons for escorting a young woman, particularly one who acted as _familiarly_ as Shepard did, halfway across Thedas by himself. He knew it wasn’t a normal situation; this sort of thing usually called for several Templars and carefully co-ordinated tactics, not a lone man who - he knew in himself - looked positively gaunt from the hard work of tracking his prisoner and keeping her in check.

“Alright,” Shepard said eventually, finally placing her fork down on her plate. “Can I have a look around before I turn in?”

“A look around _where_?” Cullen asked suspiciously.

“The church. Come on, you’re obviously a religious guy; are you going to deprive me of the opportunity to discover God?”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, too tired to battle with her on this point. “If you are truly interested in learning of the Maker and Andraste, I am sure the Revered Mother would be willing to discuss the Chant of Light with you.”

“The Chant of Light?” Shepard repeated, and Cullen bristled at the derision in her voice.

“Maker, how is it possible that you’ve come of age and know _nothing_ of the most prevalent religion in Thedas?”

“How is it possible that _you_ know nothing of mass effect fields or FTL drive cores?” Shepard retorted, apparently just as annoyed at his dismissal as he was at hers. “Obviously we have different areas of expertise. Mine is just based in facts rather than a naïve hope that some deity is going to solve all my problems.”

Cullen let out an involuntary splutter, desperately hoping the Revered Mother had not heard her blasphemy. The two other Templars had similar reactions; one’s eyes widened in shock, whilst the other’s narrowed to slits.

“You can’t speak like that in a Chantry!” Cullen hissed.

“Well, maybe your Maker will smite me to prove his existence.”

“Watch your mouth, mage,” the older of the Templars spoke, taking a step towards Shepard. “This is a place of worship, and I will not have some apostate desecrate it with their ignorance.”

Shepard opened her mouth to respond, but seeing something in the Templar’s countenance she hesitated and, sighing, spoke again in a more reasonable tone. “Fine. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Not so fast,” the younger of the two Templars spoke, moving to take hold of her wrists, and though Cullen could tell he only meant to manacle her once more Shepard jolted at the sudden movement. She seemed to act on instinct rather than any discernible thought process; she raised the arm he had gripped, and with her other hand she grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting her body out of his grip as she forced his arm to bend unnaturally in its hold of her. It was a move of self-defence, Cullen knew that, and he also knew that the older Templar’s move to draw his sword was only in defence of his comrade. He even knew, really, that Shepard’s subsequent attack was one of a cornered animal, rather than someone wanting to pick a fight. That didn’t justify it, however; didn’t excuse the elbow to the younger Templar’s face, nor the force energy she used to throw the other against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Cullen jumped to his feet, drawing his own sword, and she turned on him, glowing blue from head to toe as she put her hands out in front of her.

“Put it the _fuck_ down,” she commanded, voice low and threatening. Cullen growled, summoning his own reserves to cancel her magic; the blue energy around her flickered and died, and she let out a cry of frustration as the younger Templar, blood streaming from his nose, grabbed her arms, pushing her firmly into a wall as he struggled to cuff her. He secured the manacles behind her back, but she still wasn’t willing to be defeated that easily; she threw her head back, landing a second blow on the young Templar’s nose, who howled in pain.

“ _What_ is going on here?” an angry voice interrupted the brawl; they all turned to face the Revered Mother, who looked anything but serene as she glared at the group.

“She attacked me!” the bloodied young Templar moaned, hands cupping his nose.

“ _He_ attacked _me_!” Shepard protested, looking more angry than the rest of the group combined. “And then _he_ pulled a sword out!” she said, jerking her head towards the older Templar, who was still groaning on the ground, clasping his head.

“I will not have weapons - swords or magic - used in my Chantry!” the Mother told them, and Cullen flushed at the rebuke in her voice; he quickly sheathed his sword, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided the Mother’s eyes. “Good,” the Mother said, crossing her arms as she regarded the four of them as though they were a class of naughty schoolchildren. The older Templar pushed himself to his feet, glaring furiously at Shepard.

“You’ve got a dangerous one there, Knight-Captain,” he murmured, producing a handkerchief from under his armour and handing it to his colleague.

“I apologise on behalf of my—”

“Don’t apologise on behalf of me!” Shepard snapped furiously. “I’ll apologise myself if I want to! And I _don’t_ \- if you’d given me a heads up you were going to cuff me instead of just jumping me that wouldn’t have happened,” she said to the still-bleeding Templar, who was prodding his nose tentatively. “It’s your own fault.”

“You overreacted,” Cullen said bluntly. “Are you alright, Ser?”

“I think it’s broken,” he whimpered, feeling the bridge of his nose and wincing, and Shepard rolled her eyes. “Since when did mages get so scrappy?”

“Tell me,” Shepard said, turning to the Revered Mother now, eyes blazing. “What does your _Maker_ say about treating mages like shit? About handcuffing them and forcing them to live in a place called ‘the Gallows’?”

Cullen, and the two other Templars, answered for her; they spoke in unison the same sentence which had been ingrained in them since childhood. “Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over them.”

“I’m not trying to rule any of you, and I’ve spent my whole fucking life serving humanity,” she spat, glaring at Cullen in a way that made his blood run cold. “One day you’ll have to fight something much worse than people like me, and you’ll need our help against it, and you’ll be _fucked_ , because not one mage will want to help you.”

“Enough,” the Revered Mother said. “I will not permit any more of your foul language in this Chantry. I’m sorry, Knight-Captain, but if you cannot control your ward I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not his ward; I’m his—”

“Shepard, shut up!” Cullen shouted, and her jaw snapped shut, her eyes glinting malevolently. “Revered Mother, I apologise for the trouble we’ve caused.” He shot a warning look at Shepard, daring her to contradict him, but her eyes merely narrowed further. “If you could point us to where we could rest - and Sers, I would appreciate your help in alternating watches—”

“Fine by me,” the older Templar agreed. 

“Then come, child,” the Revered Mother said, voice kind in a way which must have taken an extraordinary amount of effort. “Perhaps with some rest you will feel more accepting of your duty, come the morning.”

“I doubt it,” Shepard muttered, just loud enough to be audible, though the Mother chose to ignore her as she escorted her from the room.

“I’ll take first watch,” the older Templar said to Cullen, following the pair of women. “I don’t envy your task in bringing her back, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered the seemingly monumental task that lay ahead of him. If he had any hopes of his own nose remaining unbroken by the end of this, he was going to have to come up with some way to subdue her.


	6. Chapter 6

Four nights in, and Shepard knew the Templar’s game.

She barely slept the first night, too wary was she of the Knight-Captain’s presence in the room. He seemed like a decent enough sort of man; he was curt but not cruel, firm but never rough, ensuring she was fed and watered just as he was. Most of all, he seemed professional; his duty of the utmost importance to him, she doubted he would anything to compromise the task he had sworn himself to. 

He seemed that way, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was. 

The second night of their travel, she’d slept straight through, which she put down to the culmination of several nights’ worth of no sleep. Still, she was surprised to wake the following morning with the sun already shining through the window, no lingering dreams or memories haunting her as she regained consciousness, with the Knight-Captain polishing his greaves at the table. The third night she slept too – again with no dreams or nightmares of which to speak – which was when she became suspicious. Pushing herself up to sitting, her eyes fell on the bread and water he’d set out for her on the little end-table, and she narrowed her eyes at them, realising with a jolt how much he’d pushed for her to eat and drink the previous two nights. And the stupid, _stupid_ girl she’d been, accepting anything given to her by an enemy; of _course_ it hadn’t been mere concern for her health.

Apparently she had underestimated him.

Shepard, in the long time she had spent in the military, had developed her own personal strategies for dealing with men. She was analytical and detached for the mentors who doubted her abilities on the grounds of her height and sex; she was brash and assertive with the colleagues at N-school who felt the same. With her enemies, she tended to play to their preconceptions, for as long as it took to embed her omni in their spine. And to her crew – men and women – she was bold, unflinching, indomitable, because she had to be; she needed their full trust, and they needed someone to trust in. Truth be told, there were few men she felt she could just _be_ around; Thane had been one, of course. Garrus was too. Now, she needed to figure out what sort of woman she ought to be around the Templar, to get him to let his guard down.

She knew that there was no hope in trying to befriend him; he was far too loyal to his cause to be talked round. She could kill him, of course. The thought had occurred to her once or twice; how she could jump him when his back was turned and snap his neck, or strangle him with the very chains he’d bound her with. Had she found herself here three years ago, she probably would have done so without hesitation, but now… now there was something that held her back, that made her gut twist uncomfortably at the thought of taking yet another life. She was already a killer many times over, a fact which she’d long since rationalised as a grim necessity of her work; at least on the battlefield the faces blurred into one, and she could pretend to herself that she was killing a nameless enemy rather than a person with hopes and dreams of their own. But Cullen had a name, and a face, and there was probably even someone who cared for him somewhere. Taking his life felt more like murder than killing, and the last thing she needed was more guilt to fuel her dreams.

She could fight him instead, taking him by surprise the next time he removed her manacles and injuring him just enough so he couldn’t follow, if only he hadn’t confiscated her swords; he’d fought valiantly when overwhelmed the first time she’d met him, and now _she_ was the one at a disadvantage, cuffed and weaponless against an enemy who could even cancel her biotics. And if it went wrong, she had no doubt he’d have none of the same reservations about killing her. Running, therefore, was her best option; she just needed to make sure he couldn’t chase her. What she’d really like some form of was poetic justice – if he wanted to drug and chain her, she’d do the same right back. That’d show him.

The opportunity presented itself the moment they stepped foot in their accommodation on the fourth evening; another tavern, slightly less reputable than the one they’d stayed in on the first night. When they entered the bar was unstaffed – the barman in the midst of splitting up a fight between two of the patrons – and so with very little effort or guise Shepard was able to reach over the bar and relieve it of a bottle of one of its harder liquors. 

“Fancy a nightcap?” Shepard asked as they entered their room for the evening, producing the bottle from under her arm.

“Maker’s breath; where did you get _that_ from?”

“Swiped it from the bar,” she shrugged.

“Your hands are manacled.”

“I’ve still got joints,” she said, picking up the bottle between her wrists and pulling the cork off with her teeth. “I thought we could do something fun to pass the time. How about a drinking game?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Drinking in awkward silence is also an option,” she suggested, bringing the bottle to her lips, and Cullen frowned at her.

“We’re not on some night out at the pub, Shepard,” Cullen barked, pulling the bottle away from her. “I’m here to escort you to the Circle, not to be your drinking buddy.”

“You’re very controlling,” Shepard noted as he tried in vain to push the cork back into the bottle. “I feel sorry for your girlfriend.”

He jolted ever so slightly at that, his frown fading into an altogether softer expression. “I – er – I don’t have a girlfriend,” he mumbled in response.

“Boyfriend?” she asked curiously, and Cullen’s cheeks began to tinge with pink.

“Oh – I, um – not that, either.”

_Jackpot._

“Oh. Completely unattached. That’s… surprising,” she said, suppressing a grin as she looked at him with wide eyes.

“Why, exactly?” he replied, the frown back.

“Well, it’s—” she said, then cut herself off with a soft laugh, averting her gaze as though she was embarrassed. “Doesn’t matter. Is it a celibacy thing? Do the Templars pledge themselves entirely to their service?”

“No, it’s – ah – that I don’t – I haven’t—Andraste preserve me; I’m not going to speak of this with you,” Cullen stuttered, growing redder and more irritated by the minute, and in any other circumstance Shepard might have found his awkwardness endearing.

“Have a drink with me and I might shut up,” Shepard offered.

“Maker, _fine_. You can have one drink.” He turned his back on her, bustling around the one cabinet in the room, pulling a dusty tumbler from it before filling it to the brim. He turned back to her, brandishing the glass at her. “Here,” he said forcefully when she showed no sign of taking it.

“Aren’t you going to have one? I said have a drink _with_ me.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing, returning to the cabinet and quickly filling a second glass. She followed him, gathering the glasses up into her arms the moment he had finished pouring, putting them onto the small table and quickly selecting the second drink he’d poured as her own. She turned back to him with an easy smile, and his eyes lingered for only a moment on the glass left for him before shrugging slightly and picking it up.

_Perfect._

“Cheers,” Shepard said, raising the glass – wedged firmly between her wrists – to her lips before downing it in one. Cullen copied her, doing his best not to grimace at the strong liqueur. “Another?”

“I thought I said _one_ drink.”

“These glasses are only half-sized. Besides, we wasted that one by downing it.” He sighed, but there was a distinct smile he was resisting as he retrieved the bottle once more, filling his own glass before returning to her. “It would be much easier for me to drink if you took these things off,” Shepard noted as she held her glass out.

“It would also be much easier for you to kill me.”

“You wound me, Rutherford,” Shepard said, pouting slightly. “Do you honestly think I would kill an unprepared man whilst having a friendly drink with him?”

“I think I shouldn’t take that risk.”

“I could crack you over the head with these,” she said, waving her manacles at him and clinking the connecting chains. “Or strangle you.”

Cullen scoffed at her assertion, and her brow furrowed in irritation. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You really wouldn’t.”

She took a sip from her drink, wandering back over to the bed and sitting down. She patted the bedspread next to her, and Cullen rolled his eyes but obeyed the silent command, perching on the bed as far away from her as possible. She allowed herself a moment of pride that, even as a bound prisoner, she could still act with some authority – even if her jailer was remarkably weak-willed.

“So come on; tell me a little about yourself,” she said once he’d taken a drink from his glass. “Where are you from?”

He scowled at her. “I thought the whole purpose of us having a drink was that you were going to be quiet?”

“Why can’t we just have a reasonable conversation? Surely there must be _something_ you’d like to ask me about.”

He considered his drink for a moment, and she thought he was going to ignore her, but after some consideration he spoke again.

“I _am_ curious as to how you avoided capture for so long.”

“Who says I ‘avoided’ capture? Not everywhere guards its mages like animals.”

He started at that, head snapping up to face her. “Wait. You aren’t—you’re not from _Tevinter_ , are you?”

There was a strange look in his face when he asked that – a hint of fear, perhaps? – and she considered going along with it for a second. But that was a lie she didn’t have the knowledge to reliably tell, and so she shook her head instead.

“No. I’m from…” she trailed off, trying to think of some way to answer that question which didn’t involve flying ships and alien races. There was no point in telling him the truth; he’d either think she was a liar or mad, and neither of those opinions helped her right now. “I’m from across the sea,” she settled on eventually, a small pang in chest at the words, downing the rest of her drink to smother the pain.

“The Amaranthine Ocean?” Cullen asked, and there was a clear eagerness in his face; his eyes sparkled with curiosity, making him seem much younger. “No-one knows what’s on the other side; some adventurers have tried to cross but never returned. Are you truly from that far away?”

She smiled at that; the thought of not knowing what was on the other side of a patch of water, when she was intimately familiar with planets light years away, was laughably archaic. “I am from _very_ far away,” she told him simply.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “How did you even get here?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m the Commander of a ship?”

“Then why did you cross over? Have your people come to invade, or—”

“I was on a mission that got… complicated,” she muttered darkly. ‘Complicated’ was one word for it; there were numerous others which were both harsher and more accurate. “I didn’t intend to end up here, but—well, I didn’t intend half the stuff that’s led me here, either,” she told him. “At any rate, here I am, and I’m stranded.”

“What was your mission?”

Shepard grinned at him. “To save the universe.”

He tutted, turning his attention back to his drink. “Of course it was,” he muttered.

He seemed to be getting bored of their conversation, and damnit, whatever concoction he was drugging her with seemed to be taking a long time to kick in on him; she on the other hand felt a little woozy from downing two drinks in quick succession. The longer this went on, the higher the chance of him growing irritated with her and shackling her to the furniture, and then it wouldn’t matter how deeply he slept; she still wouldn’t be able to escape. Perhaps, she thought with a sinking feeling, whatever he’d tried to drug her with didn’t even work on Templars; maybe it worked specifically to drain the energy of those with 'magic' or biotics. The only option she had left was to somehow convince him to take off her manacles, and then take him by surprise. And she was going to have to get a lot closer for him to even consider that. 

“Alright then,” she said, shuffling closer to him on the bed. “Would you like to know the truth?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Are you capable of telling it?”

“When I want to be,” she said, flashing him a smile before beginning. “I’m what’s known as a Spectre. Special tactics and reconnaissance. We’re elite agents, hand-picked by our most high-ranking leaders to preserve peace and stability at any cost. Spectres answer only to our Council; we’re above the law, and certainly above Templars.”

“So you’re allowed free reign to do whatever you want to meet your goals?” Cullen asked, clearly unimpressed. “That sounds wildly irresponsible.”

“It’s not like there’s hundreds of us running around out there, killing anyone we feel like. There’s a code of honour – at least, there is for me.” Her voice trailed out towards the end of a sentence, realising with a jolt that that perhaps wasn’t true; sure, she’d always tried to find a peaceful solution, but when push came to shove she’d chosen to destroy an entire race, and probably her crew along with it.

No. No, she couldn’t think on that now; she desperately needed to resist those thoughts, knowing the moment she let them in they would break her. She would simply not think about it, for as long as possible, and when the day came when she couldn’t run from it any longer then… well, she’d figure that out when she got there.

“If you were that important, they would have sent someone after you,” Cullen said, breaking her reverie, and her joviality flickered at his dismissal of her. In those last days, she’d been the most important person in the entire fucking galaxy, and she could crush _him_ in a heartbeat.

“Not if they think I’m dead.”

“I’m still not sure I believe you,” he maintained, and her annoyance was quickly turning to frustration.

“Why not?” she demanded, face hardening. “Because I’m a woman? Or because I’m a mage?”

“Well—I, er—” he stuttered, clearly taken aback by her sudden sharpness, but she cut him off.

“It’s conceivable that a government could have need for operatives like Spectres, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’ve seen me fight. Is it not conceivable that such a government might notice my abilities and want to make use of them?”

“I suppose so—”

“Then what exactly is so hard for you to believe?”

She knew she was being harsh with him – far too harsh to make him drop his guard – but she couldn’t help it; for some strange reason she wanted to prove herself to him, to make the stupid Templar see a person beyond the title of _mage_. “I apologise,” he mumbled after a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Pour me another drink and I’ll forget all about it,” she said, conjuring up a winning smile for him, and though it felt obviously fake on her lips he obliged, filling her glass again and placing it back between her manacles. “And yours,” she added, and he rolled his eyes but topped his drink up all the same.

“So how did you get picked?” Cullen asked, quickly clarifying on Shepard’s quizzical look. “To be a Spectre. You’re a good fighter, but you must have done something in particular that made people take notice.”

“You really are curious about me,” she said with a coy smile, surreptitiously edging closer towards him.

“You’re interesting,” he acknowledged, looking at her with his brow furrowed, as though she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a mage like you.”

Shepard laughed softly. “That’s because there aren’t any mages like me.” She considered him for a moment, strategising her plan of attack. Blatant seduction was sure to fail; she needed his defences weakened first. 

A sob story would get the job done.

“I was on an important mission,” she began, voice quiet and serious. “We’d lost all contact with one of our colonies – Akuze. I was sent out with fifty other marines to investigate. When we arrived, the colony was completely intact – the buildings and farms untouched – but not a soul in sight. We searched every house but found no-one, and when the sun began to set we decided to camp for the night. That’s when the Thresher Maws hit.”

“Thresher Maws?” Cullen asked, eyes wide, already enraptured by her story. Shepard nodded.

“Imagine a cross between a giant worm and a dragon. They live underground and strike without warning. You could be walking along, minding your own business, and _bang_!” she called, and Cullen actually jumped. “A hundred-foot-long worm made of acid and fury erupts out of the earth beneath you. Game over, man.”

“Maker’s breath. So your unit defeated these Thresher Maws and were hailed as heroes?”

Shepard shook her head, the look of sadness on her face only partly an act as she took a long drink from her glass. “That would be a nice story. But no. They took us by surprise in the middle of the night and slaughtered every last soul in my unit – except me, of course.”

“How did you survive?” Cullen asked, and the sorrowful way he was looking at her almost made her feel bad for manipulating him.

“Through a combination of stubbornness and dumb luck. I was badly injured, but I was camped on the periphery of our site, and managed to make it to a ridge where they couldn’t strike. From there I practically crawled back to the extraction point. Once word got out what had happened, ‘soldier runs away from dying comrades’ quickly morphed into ‘lone woman survives against the odds’, and the Council took notice of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen muttered. “I know what it’s like. To lose your colleagues – your friends – like that. Things… aren’t the same afterwards.”

Shepard’s heart sank as she realised her story had _not_ had the effect she’d hoped for; the Templar now looked thoroughly depressed, staring into the distance, and she desperately needed to get things back on track.

“I earned my place on the mission for a different reason, of course,” she told him, shuffling so she was now completely facing him and putting her drink to one side.

“And what was that?”

She smiled, head tilted and looking up at him through her lashes. “It’s hard, being a woman in the army. There are certain things you have to do to get ahead.” His eyes were locked on hers, trepidation in his stare but certainly no repulsion, and she took her chance; she slung one leg across his lap, straddling him, his face blurry for a moment now they were mere inches apart. She shook her head slightly, forcing herself to work past the alcohol and focus. “I became quite adept at those _certain things_ ,” she whispered as she leaned in closer, shackled hands creeping up towards his neck, and without warning he grabbed her wrists.

“I recall you threatening to strangle me with these,” he muttered, indicating to her manacles.

“Some men rather like it,” she told him with a mischievous glint in her eye, and though his cheeks were beginning to tinge pink he held her gaze. “But if you’re worried, you could just unshackle me. Then I could show you what else I can do with my hands.” 

His eyes widened, and she knew she had won; capitalising on her victory, she leaned further into him, lips against his neck and planting the ghost of a kiss, and he made a small, choked splutter as she scraped the stubbled skin there with her teeth. His hands dropped from her wrists, settling now on her waist, and she resisted a shudder as she felt his breath on her neck.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he murmured into her ear.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” he agreed, his hold on her tightening, his voice harder when he spoke next. “Then you’d be free to hex me with whatever spell you choose.”

 _Fuck._ Her heart pounded, though she fought to maintain her composure, committed to this path now she’d started. “Good thing you have that magic muting ability, right?”

For a moment, she thought she had him; she heard him draw in a sharp breath, felt his fingers twitch on her waist. But then his hands grabbed roughly at her shoulders, pushing her away from him, and he glared at her with an expression that could only be described as loathing.

“I _know_ what you’re doing,” he growled, and she smiled coquettishly at him.

“And what’s that?”

“Seducing me into letting my guard down.” His face was hard, jaw set so firmly that the muscles in it twitched, and she wasn’t sure if he was more angry at her or himself for letting her get this close. “It’s pretty much day one in Templar training.”

“And drugging mages is day two, right?” she countered, all pretence dropped. “Maybe you should’ve checked your drink more closely before downing it.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I didn’t put anything in the first drink. The bottle, however…”

So it wasn’t the alcohol going to her head. “Oh, _fuck_.”

She tried to make her move, but of course she wasn’t quick enough; the moment she raised her hands to strike him he grabbed her wrists, locking them in one big hand whilst his other arm anchored her against his chest. She tried in vain to wriggle away, kicking out wildly and spilling their almost-forgotten drinks across the bedspread, but his hold on her was too tight for her to inflict any proper damage, and within seconds he had her pinned to the bed, straddling her waist as he tied her wrists to the headboard. He jumped off her as soon as she was secured, narrowly avoiding her flailing legs, and she let out a groan of frustration as she finally admitted to herself that she’d been defeated. As she fought against the drowsiness which was trying to take over, she heard him chuckle, and she did her best the glare at him through the sleepy fog.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing at. For a moment there, you were considering it.”

“You wish,” he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest as he perched on the edge of their little table, and damn him, he was _not_ about to get the last word.

“Consider this a warning, Rutherford,” she told him, and maybe it was a bad idea to threaten him, but his sleeping draught was kicking in quickly now and she was losing all ability to think straight. “Next time your guard’s down, I won’t be so gentle.”

“Oh, I won’t be letting my guard down around _you_ any time soon.”


	7. Chapter 7

Cullen was just drifting off to sleep himself when he heard the scream.

He bolted upright in his chair, eyes instantly searching for his prisoner; Shepard remained in the same position he’d left her, wrists tied to the headboard and head lolling to one side. Obviously not the source of the scream. He was just about to dismiss it as the start of a dream, when he heard muffled crying drifting in through the open window.

Tentatively, he approached the window, peering down into the street for the source of the noise. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out the silhouette of a woman trying desperately to console a girl no older than eight.

“Shh, shh, you need to be quiet, we need to leave—”

“We can’t leave without Snuffles,” the child sobbed. “He’ll starve.”

“We can’t go back for him; we need to get out before—”

“He’ll _die_!” the child exclaimed, and her mother again attempted in vain to shush her.

“We’ll die if we stay here – don’t you see? That Templar is going to find you—”

The rest of her sentence became white noise to Cullen as he realised the implication of her words. _Another mage_. His grip reflexively tightened on his pommel, and he glanced over at Shepard’s unconscious form. What in the Void was he supposed to do? He already had one captured mage who he could barely keep control of; how was he supposed to bring a second one back to Kirkwall? The sensible thing to do would be to turn a blind eye, just this once; to inform the next Chantry they arrived in and hope they caught up to the young girl before she did any damage. But if her mother managed to evade capture, and someone came to harm from the child’s uncontrolled magic, he’d never forgive himself. Perhaps, he mused to himself, the situation could be turned to his advantage instead. The girl could be used as leverage to ensure Shepard’s cooperation; Shepard, though unruly, seemed principled, and he doubted she would do anything that could endanger a child.

And this was his duty, after all.

He steeled his resolve, grabbing his shield before quietly making his way downstairs. The tavern was quiet now, only a few patrons left slumped over tables in deep sleep, and the street too was deserted, save for the two small figures scurrying off into the distance. Cullen gave pursuit, as quietly as he could, and the woman only heard him when he was a few metres from her; she whipped her head around at the noise, eyes wide and wild when she located the source. She swept her child into her arms, running now, but Cullen was far too quick for them; he ran a wide circle, coming to stop in front of them, hand raised in a silent command to halt.

“By order of the Chantry I command you to release that mage into my custody,” he said, and the woman put the child down, stepping in front of her as though to protect her from him.

“I won’t let her go to the Circle,” the woman said, voice shaky but resolute.

“That is not your choice to make.”

The woman looked near tears, but Cullen steeled himself, refusing to be swayed by her anguish. She knelt, turning to her daughter, who was sobbing uncontrollably. “I need you to be brave for me, darling,” she said, tilting the girl’s chin up so their eyes met. “I need you to be brave. Can you do that?” The girl, still wracked with sobs, wiped her eyes and gave a small determined nod. “Good.” She stood once more, turning to face Cullen, eyes locking with his as she raised her hands, and Andraste preserve him; it wasn’t one mage but _two_. “Run!” she called to her daughter as flames shot from her palms; Cullen pulled his shield from his back and raised it just in time, deflecting the shots. She began conjuring again, but he cancelled the spell, and she gave a frustrated cry before summoning her fire a third time – except she wasn’t summoning it, she was _becoming_ it, flames enveloping her arms and chest as her eyes turned red.

And Shepard thought mages should be free.

The abomination roared, Cullen drawing his sword now as it charged towards him, dodging out of its way and striking two quick blows to its flank. It howled in response, lashing out wildly, flames shooting out at random from its arms, and he lunged again, landing a third strike to its gut. It retreated from him, fire billowing out in all directions to stop him from getting any closer, but Cullen knew it could only keep that up for so long; the second the flames flickered he made his move, charging with his shield high before swinging through with his sword, cleanly slicing the creature’s neck. It roared, throwing up a wall of fire in front of it in an attempt to block him; calling on the lyrium in his veins once more he muted the wall just in time to see the monster slinking off into the distance.

The abomination was clearly wounded, but it wasn’t a victory yet; he’d have to hunt it, but as his eyes followed the creature’s flight through the village he realised there was another battle to fight. The abomination had been desperate, and the flames it had thrown out had landed everywhere; all around him trees and houses were beginning to blaze, and ice shot through his veins as his gaze fell on the tavern he’d exited not fifteen minutes ago, and saw smoke billowing from the windows.

He sheathed his sword, running back towards the pub; it seemed as though a fireball had broken through the downstairs window, and now the whole bar area was ablaze. He jumped backwards as the door burst open, the landlord and lady rushing outside, trying to usher their remaining patrons to safety.

“Get the people out of their houses!” he barked at the couple. “One of you start pumping water!”

“What in the Maker’s name happened?!” the landlord yelled, looking on desperately as his livelihood was engulfed in smoke. 

“An abomination!” Cullen replied, realising too late the implication of his words; the landlady turned on him, furious.

“You brought that mage—”

“It wasn’t her; it was some woman from the village! I need to get her out,” he said, putting his arm to his mouth and approaching the doorway, but the landlord pulled him back.

“It’s not worth it! She’s just an apostate!”

“I can’t leave her to burn!” Cullen replied, because of course he couldn’t. She’d saved his life; how could he refuse to do the same for her?

He ducked into the tavern, placing a handkerchief over his mouth as he dodged past creaking walls and burning beams. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the room he had shared with the apostate, finding it thick with smoke but thankfully no flames yet. Shepard was lifeless on the bed, and he feared for a moment that he was too late; he approached her still form, relieved to see the steady rise and fall of her chest as he grew closer. His fingers fumbled over the rope binding her hands, and with a groan he pulled a dagger from his belt, quickly slicing through the ties.

“Shepard?” he called, giving her a little shake, but she didn’t respond. “Shepard!” he called again, shaking her harder this time; her eyes flickered open for a second before fluttering shut again. He groaned again, and with the back of his hand he struck her cheek; she jolted awake, eyes flitting around confusedly to try and locate the cause of her rude awakening.

“Shepard, we need to go!”

“Wha—?” she mumbled, blinking stupidly as she continued to look around the room.

“We need to _go_ , you need to walk; get up, come on!” he ordered, pulling her off the bed to stand; she wobbled on her feet before collapsing forward onto his chest. “Oh, for the love of—fine!” he exclaimed, grabbing her round the waist and slinging her over his shoulder, arms tight around her legs to stop her from slipping. 

He half-ran, half-stumbled back down the stairs; the flames were spreading rapidly, and he could feel them licking at the bare skin of his face and neck as he tried to leave the building as quickly as possible, positively baking inside his armour. It was getting hard for him to even see; thick black smoke obscured his vision and made him cough violently against his handkerchief. He squinted, searching all around him for the exit; he located the door, racing towards it, but had to jump back as a beam crashed to the ground in front of him, narrowly missing flattening both him and Shepard. The door now blocked, he looked desperately around for another exit; the main window was out of action, its frame engulfed in fire already, but there was a second smaller window nearer the back which would have to do. He struck it with his elbow, knocking out the glass, slinging Shepard through the window with very little ceremony before clamouring through himself. 

He picked Shepard up once more, jostling her to a position on his shoulder where her armour didn’t cut into the side of his neck, then cast around for his target. He knew it would be a tough fight, and he cursed himself for Shepard’s limp form; he didn’t know much about her, but he knew had she been conscious, she would’ve helped do whatever it took to save the town from its fate. That’s what she’d done for him, after all. It didn’t take long to find the abomination’s trail; there was a line of fire, looking as though someone had walked it, to a nearby barn which looked relatively untouched by the surrounding destruction. With some relief, he noticed that the townspeople were out in force now, passing along buckets to put out the burning buildings, and though he wanted to help them he knew he was the only one capable of permanently putting an end to the creature causing the fire. Arms tightening around Shepard’s legs once more he strode towards his goal, lungs burning with the effort of movement as a cough hacked at his chest.

He was still twenty feet from the barn when he saw the abomination; it prowled amongst the hay, occasionally spurting out fire and setting a bale alight. Cullen dumped Shepard on the ground when he was satisfied she was a safe enough distance from the burning buildings, then drew his sword and shield as he approached the creature. It snarled when it saw him, shooting a beam of fire in his direction; he deftly circled away from the blaze, approaching its flank and scoring a wound there. The abomination staggered as he summoned a mana clash, and it howled as its fire turned to wisps of smoke; it lashed out wildly, and Cullen narrowly dodged its flailing talons. He brought his shield up to protect him, angling it down to protect his legs from any fire, and charged forward, slamming against the creature with a not inconsiderable force. It howled again, and Cullen almost thought he had defeated it, but then there was another noise; a whimper, one which sounded like a wounded animal, and his head instinctively turned towards the sound. It wasn’t an animal, however, but the mage girl; cowering behind a bale of hay, eyes watering - from the smoke, or from the awful spectacle she had to behold, Cullen wasn’t sure - and face covered in soot.

“Get to safety!” Cullen yelled desperately at the girl, but she remained frozen in place, absolutely terrified, and let out a bloodcurdling scream as the monster who used to be her mother set fire to the bale she was using for protection. Cullen tried to dive round the creature towards the girl, but the abomination blocked him; it lashed out towards him once more, successfully landing a blow to his side and sending him hurtling to the ground with the air knocked from his lungs. The abomination loomed over Cullen, and he desperately reached for his sword; it saw him, and moved in front of the weapon with a screech. It stretched its talons, preparing itself for its final blow, and he tried once, twice more to summon his reserves, but it was no use; he was completely drained, fumbling for the lyrium on his belt but unable to place his shaking hands on the correct bottle. The abomination threw its head back, ready to strike, and quite suddenly the whole barn was filled with dazzling blue light; he saw Shepard stagger into view, dazed but determined, _glowing_ a brilliant blue as she lowered her head and grit her teeth. She charged, faster than Cullen thought humanly possible, ramming into the monster with such speed and force that it shattered, ashen flakes flying into the air and settling around them. She took a deep breath, turning to Cullen to shoot him an exhausted grin, before her eyes fluttered and she collapsed to the ground.

“Shepard!” Cullen called, scrambling over to where she lay face down on the floor. He rolled her over, relieved to find her still breathing though unconscious, the sleeping draught having apparently overwhelmed her once more. Fumbling, he hooked his hands under her armpits, dragging her with all the strength he had left in him from the barn which was now growing thicker with flames and smoke, forcing his eyes to stay open though the world was swimming around him. He only let go of her once the air was clearer, and though it could only have been several feet from the building it felt like he’d dragged her a mile; limbs shaking, he succumbed to his exhaustion, collapsing onto the ground beside her. He thought, briefly, of the mage child still within the barn, but he could barely walk let alone carry the young girl to safety. He knew he’d failed her, and hoped desperately that she would run to safety, that someone else would find her, that the barn would be extinguished before she could fall victim to the flames. But he knew those wishes were in vain, and as he squinted up at the barn now to see it fully ablaze he feared the likely outcome would be much more tragic. Eyelids leaden, he finally stopped fighting his body and allowed them to close, his last thought before darkness consumed him frustration that, for the second time, the apostate had saved his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hit 50 kudos which is unexpected and awesome and I can't believe 50 people like my ridiculous crossover! This is probably the turning point of them not being total dicks to one another so enjoy and keep reading!


	8. Chapter 8

“Rutherford. Rutherford, I need you to wake up.”

“Mm? What is it?”

“I need you to take these off.”

Cullen groaned, cracking his eyes open only marginally to see Shepard sat over him, waving her manacled hands in his face. He closed his eyes again, not ready to face her or the day’s journey just yet.

“Shepard, I’m exhausted and I’m not in the mood to—”

“Please, Cullen. My hands,” she said, voice cracking, and he looked at her properly; there was a vulnerability in her he hadn’t seen before, eyes wide and desperate as she brandished her manacled hands at him. “My hands are killing me.”

Cullen rubbed his eyes as he sat up straight. He saw now that they were in a field just a stone’s throw from the barn; the fire thankfully had been put out whilst they were unconscious, though not before it had inflicted considerable damage on the small village. The houses varied from some charred thatching to total ruin, and his stomach twisted at the thought of the life which undoubtedly had been lost in the blaze. He tore his attention away from destruction and back to Shepard, taking a closer look at her hands. The skin at her wrists was red and peeling, and Cullen realised with a jolt what must have happened; the metal must have heated to unbearable levels as she’d lain unconscious in the flaming tavern, not noticing the temperature in her drugged state. Tentatively, Cullen unlocked her manacles, and Shepard stifled a whimper as he eased the metal off. It was all he could do not to gasp on seeing her hands; the backs of her hands were red raw, large blisters forming where her skin had touched scalding metal.

“Well, I suppose I ought to give up my hand modelling career.”

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered as Shepard worried at her lower lip, trying desperately not to reveal just how much pain she was in. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “Just… use your healing magic to fix it.”

“What?” Shepard asked, looking up at him confusedly.

“Your healing magic – I know you have it; you used it on me. Go ahead; I don’t mind.”

“That wasn’t healing magic; that was medigel,” Shepard said, with a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or frustration. “And I used my last sachet on you, for all the good it did me.”

“Alright, alright, let me just—we need to bathe them,” he said, casting around for some sort of bowl he could use; after a moment’s thought he pulled off his elbowguard and placed it on the ground. It was just concave enough for the task; it wouldn’t hold much liquid, but her hands were only small, and it was better than nothing. “Put one hand in here,” he told her, and she really must have been in considerable pain to follow his instructions so readily; he plucked a healing poultice from his belt and gingerly poured the contents over her hand. She let out a little hiss, fist clenching tighter.

“You need to relax your hand,” he told her softly. “Unclench your fist.” 

Slowly, she did so, biting her lip as her muscles gradually began to relax. She let out a long breath, as though she had been holding it in up until that moment, and they sat like that for several minutes, Cullen merely watching her as the tension ebbed from her face. 

“Is that starting to feel better?” he asked after some time.

“Marginally,” she muttered, and he reached forward to inspect her hand; she stiffened, reflexively curling her body over her injuries.

“I just want to look,” he reassured her, and reluctantly she raised her hand from the bowl; it looked less angry now the blisters had drained, but the redness was still there, interspersed with patches of raw, broken skin. “Good. Put your other hand in, and I’ll dress this one.”

He pulled a roll of bandages from the small pack on his belt, taking her hand in his as he dabbed it dry, being particularly careful where the epidermis had already sloughed away. He began to wind the bandage around her hand, up to the wrist and back down over fingers as gently as he could, though he knew it was still hurting her. Her face contorted in pain as he worked, fingers flexing tighter over his when he hit a particular sore spot, but she didn’t say a word, quietly watching him as he set about his work.

“You’re lucky; these could have been much worse,” he told her as he tied off the bandage; she grunted, flexing her hand once before placing it in her lap.

“What even happened last night?” she asked. “I remember you waking me up in the tavern and everything being on fire… and then that monster…”

“There was another apostate in the town,” he told her, voice hard. “She’d obviously heard I’d arrived and panicked. I confronted her and her child as they were trying to leave; she turned into a Rage demon and did all this,” he said, indicating to the destruction around them.

Shepard’s brow furrowed as she took in that piece of information, shaking her head slightly. “What is _wrong_ with you? You already have one prisoner you can barely keep on a leash; did you really think it was a good idea to add another two to the mix?”

“It is my duty to protect people from things like this—”

“You _did_ this!” Shepard interrupted. “You could have ignored them and let them slip away into the night, but instead you cornered them and forced their hand!”

“I did not ask her to turn into an abomination!” Cullen snapped. “She could have come quietly and none of this would have happened! I am not responsible for the poor decisions of apostates and blood mages!”

He expected her to shout back, but instead she seemed to calm down, looking pensive as she regarded him. “You’re saying that the mage… she _was_ that monster I killed?” Cullen nodded, and she dropped her eyes to her hands. “You’re right,” she said, ever so quietly, and Cullen wasn’t sure that he’d heard her correctly. “Whatever you did to get her to come with you… she had choices other than _this_.”

Cullen, surprised by her acknowledgement, didn’t quite know what to say in response; instead he started fiddling with his bandages again, avoiding looking at her directly. “Give me your other hand,” he said, a little rougher than he intended, though she obeyed his order nonetheless; Cullen set to work on her hand, Shepard still staring at the dressed one quietly, and his sense of unease grew with the silence. “I thought only the child was a mage,” he admitted after a time, in a softer voice. “I thought her mother was just protecting her. Parents often find it difficult, to send their child away. Even when it’s for the best.”

“Where’s the child now?” Shepard asked, and Cullen felt even worse for that question.

“I don’t know,” he said, quickly glancing at the ruined barn beside them, the image of the terrified girl flashing across his mind once more. “But I fear the worst.” Finishing his bandaging, he let go of her hand, turning his gaze instead to her face; she looked troubled, by something other than the pain, and it suddenly occurred to him what might be wrong. “That was the first abomination you’ve seen, wasn’t it?” Shepard only nodded, still staring down at her hands. “I’m sorry. It is an awful thing to witness. Especially as a mage, witnessing what you could become…”

Her eyes snapped to Cullen once more, cold and hard. “That will _never_ be my fate.”

“You cannot guarantee that,” he said, voice harder than he intended. “No mage can.”

“I’m not like them. What you think of as magic – it’s different to what I do. I’m able to manipulate mass effect fields by using—”

“Hedge magic is still magic,” he cut off her excuses, because he’d heard them all before; they were safe, they could control it, they would _never_ use blood magic.

“Of course you can’t see it,” she muttered, before sharing a wry smile with herself. “This must be how Javik felt. I suppose I should be grateful you’re not burning me at the stake. Speaking of which, why _did_ you come back for me? In the tavern?”

“I couldn’t leave you in there to burn, Shepard,” he said gruffly, because did she really think that little of him? He was hardly expecting her to hold him in high esteem - he had her in chains, after all - but he thought he’d shown himself to be a fair man, if nothing else. “Contrary to what you mages like to think, Templars aren’t monsters.”

“Unlike mages,” she muttered bitterly, and he sighed.

“Not in essence. But after what you’ve now seen, you cannot deny that the potential is there.” She shook her head once more, clearly tired of arguing with him. “Was _anything_ you told me yesterday true?” he blurted out after a moment’s silence, oddly desperate to figure her out; she’d spun her tale so convincingly, and he’d been completely taken in by it at the time, but in the cold light of day barely anything she’d said made sense.

“What do you think?” she asked instead of answering, and his brow furrowed as he considered her. There was a part of him that wanted to believe it - her heroics, her prowess, the tragedy which had befallen her - but he knew it was a convenient tale for her. It made her seem powerful, gave him reason to doubt himself, and most importantly, removed her from any links she might have to other apostates. The only part of it which seemed reasonable was her assertion that she was from beyond the Amaranthine Ocean; it certainly explained a lot, from her armour to her manner to her lack of knowledge on the commonplace. Either that, or she’d been feigning ignorance this whole time to toy with him - which he wouldn’t put past her.

“I think you’re a very good liar,” he replied.

“So you’d rather believe that, what? I’m some random, hopeless apostate who’s avoided capture for thirty years by being lucky?”

“Not at all; I’m sure you’re more than capable of killing to protect yourself, if it came to it.”

“And yet you’re still alive,” she pointed out, and he had to admit, she had him there. “I tell you what is true; I’d give anything to be back with my ship right now.” She sighed, closing her eyes before speaking again in little more than a whisper. “Everything’s fucked.”

There was a brief, unexpected pang in his gut as she said those words; perhaps it was because it was the most human she’d seemed in the last few days, allowing something into her countenance other than bravado and bluster. “You’ll get used to the Circle,” he told her, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, but she squeezed her eyes tighter shut and shook her head.

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want to go home.”

“If your home is truly across the Amaranthine Ocean, no ship in the Free Marches will venture that far east. I’m sorry, but unless someone comes to get you, you’re stuck here.”

She sighed, looking thoroughly defeated as she opened her eyes to look down at her bandages, and he realised that the strange sensation in his gut was _guilt_. Even he could see that what was happening to her wasn’t fair. She was stranded, far from her home and her friends, her abilities treated with suspicion for what was apparently the first time; before this she hadn’t been an apostate, she’d just been a free mage, and now her independence was crumbling around her. It would be nice to put her on a ship, to send her back home and forget all about her, but even if he wanted to do that he couldn’t; no-one in their right mind would take her across the Ocean, and he’d already sent word to Meredith to expect a new mage at the Gallows. He didn’t know how his Knight-Commander would react if he arrived back empty-handed after all this time, but he was sure he didn’t want to find out.

“It occurs to me that you’ve saved my life twice now, and I haven’t thanked you for either time,” he mumbled when the uncomfortable twist in his stomach became unbearable. “So… thank you.”

She laughed softly, and her countenance shifted, lightening once more. “That’s just what I do.” She looked up at him and smiled - a broad, honest smile - and something almost resembling warmth flickered inside him. No-one ever smiled at him; not the Kirkwall citizens who scurried away when he appeared, nor the mages who avoided his eyes, nor the Templars who only ever discussed work, and certainly not his Knight-Commander. It was a sliver of humanity, of empathy, and it only served to make him feel more alone.

“But I have saved _you_ once,” he added, and her smile turned into a smirk.

“Then by my count, you still owe me.”

\---

Wounds treated, Cullen and Shepard set about tacking their horses - mercifully, the creatures had survived the fire - and getting ready to leave the village. More accurately, Cullen was tacking the horses; he’d tied her hands once more, but not manacled them, unwilling to cause her more pain than necessary, and though she attempted to assist him he’d seen the wince in her face that she valiantly tried to suppress as she lifted the saddle onto her horse. 

“I’ll do it,” Cullen said, attempting to right the saddle on the horse’s back, but Shepard stubbornly waved his hands away. 

“I can manage.” He saw her wince once more as she attempted to pull the girth tight, copying what she’d seen him do over the past few days, but her bandaged hands fumbled with the buckle and she let out a frustrated groan as the girth slipped through her fingers. 

“Shepard; you’re more of a hindrance than a help,” he told her gruffly, and when she turned to face him it looked like she was sorely tempted to punch him. “Sit down and rest,” he said, softer now. “I’ll sort the tacks out.” 

Shepard sighed but didn’t contradict him, perching on a nearby fence and watching quietly as Cullen skillfully arranged the equipment. There was a part of him that knew he should be paying more attention to her; she was only in his peripheral vision now, and any moment she could surprise him by running or hitting him with a spell. But he felt strangely at ease around her after what had happened last night. Ignoring the woefully transparent attempt at seducing him, which Cullen couldn’t even think about without blushing, she’d proved herself in a way that Cullen couldn’t quite appreciate fully. The first time they’d met she’d saved him because she’d been ignorant of Templars, but last night she hadn’t been, and still she’d saved him from the Rage demon apparently without a second thought. She could’ve quite easily used the madness to her advantage to sneak away, or sat by and let the demon kill him, but she hadn’t; furthermore, he knew it must have taken considerable effort in her drugged state to even stand, let alone summon the amount of energy she’d used to shatter the demon to pieces. Perhaps he could explain it away; a way to earn his trust just enough for him to take her manacles off, for surely a woman on the run in chains would easily be identified as a mage. But that didn’t quite sit right with him. There was a bravery in her which couldn’t be dismissed so easily, and which Cullen couldn’t help but respect.

Cullen knew he couldn’t allow himself to become too comfortable with her presence. But, he thought, if she were to turn on him, he fancied she’d at least grant him the opportunity of a fair fight.

Horses ready, he nodded to Shepard, preparing to give her a leg up as she hopped down from her spot on the fence. He hesitated, however, on seeing a group of the villagers approach them. He raised a hand to hail them, recognising now the owner of the tavern leading the group.

“You’re leaving already? What are you going to do with the mage?” he demanded.

“Shepard will be taken to the Gallows at Kirkwall and, when the time comes, be put through the Harrowing,” he told them firmly, for good measure adding; “she was not responsible for what happened here.”

“We know,” another resident piped up. “Never would have thought that Mistress Kemp was a mage. She always seemed like a sweet girl, if a bit quiet.”

“What he meant, was what are you going to do with _this_ mage,” the tavern owner’s wife said, pushing past her husband, dragging a small trembling child by the arm. Cullen’s eyes widened as he took in the child’s appearance; the apostate’s daughter, the one he had thought dead in the barn. Her face thick with dirt and soot, streaked clean in places from her tears, and though she was silent now the terrified look she gave him spoke volumes.

“I thought she was dead,” Cullen said, regarding the child for a moment. “Very well; she will come with me back to the Gallows also.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Shepard spluttered. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

“This is not a matter for discussion,” Cullen hissed through gritted teeth, refusing to be drawn into a fight in front of the watching townspeople, though Shepard was not so easily pacified.

“Do you even know how to look after a child? Do you know _anything_ about them? I don’t. What does it even eat?”

“It’s - _she’s_ \- a human being; she eats what we do," he said, forcing himself not to argue with her further and turning back to the villagers. “Thank you, serah. I’ll take charge of her from here." 

The child was handed over, and the crowd dispersed; Cullen watched them go and, when they were alone, knelt down in front of the child. It had been some time since he’d brought a child back to the Circle; those tasks were generally considered easier, less prone to resistance, and so usually given to the more junior Templars. He was good with children, in theory; he’d often looked after his younger siblings before leaving for the Chantry, and when he was there the older boys all took some responsibility in looking out for the younger pledges. As an adult he’d had very little to do with them, but this wasn’t about raising her; this was about ensuring her survival until they made it back to Kirkwall, and he was sure he could perform that task adequately. In truth, it would probably be easier bringing the child back than Shepard.

“My name is Cullen,” he told the child gently, and though she shied away from him he made no further move towards her. “I am a Templar at Kirkwall. Have you heard of the Templars?” The girl nodded, lower lip wobbling, and he could only imagine the horrors her mother had filled her mind with. “What you must know is that we only want to protect people - both those with magic, and those without. You want to protect people too, don’t you? So things like this don’t happen again?” The girl regarded him for a long moment and then gave one small, sad nod. “Good. You’ll come with us, and live at the Circle in Kirkwall, and learn how to use your magic properly. You’ll have food and shelter, and you’ll…” 

He trailed off, not quite able to finish the sentence with _be safe_. Because he couldn’t guarantee that; there were more Tranquil in the Gallows every day, more mages turning to blood magic to fight back against them. Meredith was spiralling, and though he knew many of her calls were off he had no idea what to do about it. He shook his head to get himself back on track. 

“Well, we should be off then. Shepard, are you going to…?” he said, turning to Shepard and gesturing vaguely towards the child. 

“Hey, kid,” she said, giving the girl an awkward wave. “I’m Shepard. You got a name?” 

“I-I’m Agata,” she replied, voice shaky but a little braver than Cullen expected.

“She’s a mage, like you,” Cullen told the girl. 

“Not _quite_ like her,” Shepard mumbled. “Are you going to help me up now?” she asked, indicating to her horse. Cullen nodded, bending down and cupping his hands; she stepped onto them and pushed up off the ground, only narrowly missing his head as she swung her leg over the saddle. 

“Agata - you next. You can sit in front of Shepard.” She shook her head, shying away once more, and likewise Shepard shook her head in protest. 

“Put her on your horse! You’re the better rider!” 

“You need help with the reigns,” Cullen said, indicating to her hands. “Come on, now,” he said to the girl, slightly firmer. “Shepard will keep you safe.” 


	9. Chapter 9

The addition of a child was a complicating factor in their journey.

The saying _be careful what you wish for_ echoed around Shepard’s head as they began their day’s ride. The manacles were gone now, sure, but her hands were bandaged and - though she refused to show as much to Cullen - absolutely _killing_ her, broken skin still feeling as though it was burning underneath the cloth. She hoped that meant they were healing after his treatment rather than getting worse, though the dark thought that he’d given her something that was going to make her hands fall off briefly crossed her mind. She probably would have been able to control the horse with them like this, though it would have been exceptionally painful; but now she had the kid on board, and there was no way she was taking her with her when she launched her next escape attempt.

At least she’d lost nothing after last night; she thought the seduction attempt would’ve lost her talking privileges, but apparently she’d made up for that with yet another daring rescue of the Templar. She figured it was probably best not to mention that she hadn’t realised it was Cullen she was saving; in her dazed state she’d only seen a helpless figure sprawled on the floor under a menacing creature of fire, and it was only after killing the demon she’d seen who she’d saved. _Demons_ , she repeated to herself; that was a bizarre addition to this strange land, and though it was hard to believe that a mage could transform into a monster like that she couldn’t deny what she’d seen. Regardless of the mechanisms of what she had killed, Cullen seemed to have warmed to her for it, and she supposed that was something she should be grateful for; maybe he’d start to let his guard down more, and she’d find another chance to slip away when he wasn’t paying attention.

Or maybe she’d try seducing him again. He didn’t seem _entirely_ repulsed by her the first time, after all.

The kid didn’t say much, which Shepard was initially grateful for; she had no clue how to talk to children, the nearest thing she had to a child being the 600 pound Krogan she’d birthed from a tank. But as time went on, and the only thing to be heard from the girl was an occasional whimper, Shepard felt compelled to say something to her.

“Hey, kid. Are you… doing alright?” she offered, which was pathetic; she’d just seen her mother turn into a fire monster, of course she wasn’t ‘doing alright’. Nonetheless, Agata nodded, and Shepard couldn’t help but admire the girl’s bravery. “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” the girl admitted.

“Do you want to talk about your mom?” Shepard ventured, but the girl shook her head before she’d even finished the sentence. “That’s fine. I didn’t want to talk about it either, after mine died. But it gets better.”

“You killed my mum; I saw you,” the girl said, and that felt like a kick in the gut to Shepard; her mouth snapped shut, and she turned to frown at the nearby trees instead of looking towards the girl.

“Shepard did not kill your mother,” Cullen spoke now, surprising Shepard with his contribution. “Your mother died the moment she gave herself over to that demon.”

“So _you_ killed her,” she accused, and Shepard couldn’t help smiling at the girl’s petulance.

“She killed herself,” Cullen replied bluntly, and the girl tensed, muscles going rigid under Shepard’s.

“Rutherford, I really don’t think you’re helping,” Shepard snapped.

“I don’t think you are, either,” he shot back. “Perhaps we should talk about something else. Or nothing.”

They rode in silence for a moment longer, and Shepard observed Cullen critically as he trotted beside them. She’d heard his little speech to the girl back in the village, about wanting to protect people, mages included, and in that moment - despite all his sternness and inflexibility - she’d believed his intentions were good. Ash had had some old saying about that, about how the road to Hell was paved with good intentions; she’d always been more poetic than Shepard, and more black and white too. Shepard had lived with grey for longer, and had paved that road herself once or twice before.

“The Templar,” she said, lowering her voice so Cullen couldn’t hear her. “He’s a bit hopeless, but he’s not _bad_. I think you’ll be okay.”

“Then why did you run away?” Agata asked.

“Ah. Well, I’ve never been in a Circle before either. So I guess we _are_ alike.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like!” the girl wailed, and Shepard tried in vain to shush her. “Ma said they teach you to be afraid of magic, and if you upset them they make you Tranquil!”

“What’s Tranquil?” Shepard couldn’t help asking, but that only made things worse; Agata burst into tears, and Cullen groaned.

“I told you you weren’t helping!” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Agata; Tranquility is not something we take lightly. It is only used on serious consideration of the benefits and risks. If you obey the rules of the Circle, you have nothing to worry about.”

“But what is it?” Shepard persisted, despite the ever-louder sobs from the little mage, and Cullen narrowed his eyes at her.

“I will explain it to you later,” he told her firmly, and Shepard sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to get anything further from him just yet.

\---

Agata said very little after that, despite Shepard’s encouragements, and Shepard figured it was probably best to leave her alone. Cullen was surprisingly soft with the girl; he checked on her welfare, often, repeatedly asking if she was hungry or thirsty and, on the tenth silent shake of her head, insisting she had some water anyway. It was still his fault that the kid was in this situation, but at least he was being kind to her. When they arrived at their next Chantry he quickly acquired new, smoke-free clothes for the girl, and sought out the Revered Mother for help in cleaning her up. Shepard watched as she was escorted into a back room by two Sisters, and saw that Cullen was watching too, brow knitted in concern.

“You’re good with her,” Shepard noted, perching on the back of a pew next to where Cullen was standing. He frowned, briefly, at her muddied boots on the seat, but apparently decided to ignore it. “Do you have kids?”

He shook his head. “Just younger siblings,” he told her, before adding with a small smirk; “I take it you don’t have children.”

“I’m not _that_ bad with her,” she replied, indignant as his annoying smirk widened. “I had three older brothers. The only way I’ve known young girls to be treated is with pulled pigtails and a game called ‘stop hitting yourself’.”

“Had?” he picked up on her word use, trouble clouding his features, and she cursed herself for speaking so plainly. She’d be damned before she told him anything remotely personal about her family; the fact that she’d had one at all was the most he’d get out of her.

“Yeah, you know, back home,” she dismissed with a vague wave of the hand. “Because I don’t have them here.” He didn’t look particularly convinced by that, so she quickly changed the subject. “So can I have a bath too? If I don’t get to wash my hair soon I’m just going to have to shave it off.” She plucked at her braid, resisting cringing at the state of it; not only was it unwashed but it was now thick with soot, scarring black streaks through red and itching at her scalp.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll ask the Revered Mother,” he told her, which wasn’t the response she was expecting.

“Thanks,” she said, surprised, before quickly recovering herself and grinning mischievously at him. “Will you have to keep watch of me whilst I’m bathing?”

“Wha—no!” he spluttered, colour quickly rising in his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah— one of the Sisters can escort you.”

“Well, what good is that? They don’t have Templar cancelling abilities.”

“I will be on the other side of the door,” he said firmly, though he struggled to hold her gaze. “They will call me if you try anything.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to be closer than that?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes and taking a twisted pleasure in his obvious embarrassment. “Just to be safe?”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he muttered, completely avoiding her eyes now as he cast around for an escape route. “I’m going to speak with the Revered—”

“Oh, lighten up; I’m only messing with you,” she said, propping her feet up on the back of the adjacent pew and blocking his exit.

“Will you please get your feet off of there? You’re not in a barn.”

“Only if you tell me about Tranquility.”

He groaned, looking no more comfortable with the new topic than with the last. “Fine,” he said, and Shepard let her feet dangle in front of her. “The Rite of Tranquility is the last resort to prevent a dangerous mage from wreaking havoc.”

“That doesn’t tell me what it is.”

“It breaks a mage’s connection to the Fade and leaves them unable to perform magic, or become possessed.” 

“And how exactly do you do that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“By branding their mind with lyrium.”

She didn’t know what the Fade or lyrium were, but he was being distinctly unforthcoming, and it sent a chill up her spine. “I assume it’s not a pleasant process.”

“It is not painful. Many view it as a mercy.”

She considered him for a moment, unable to shake the feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling her. “And?”

“And what?”

“And why is it the ‘last resort’? It doesn’t sound like the worst solution; it’s like confiscating a sword from someone who can’t tell which end is which.”

“Would you wish to give up your power?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, no, but I can see why you would. Trade in your magic for a normal, boring life away from the Templars.”

“And some do just that.” His responses were curt, clipped, and he refused to hold eye contact with her; she knew he was holding something back, but couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it was. Some side-effect of this Rite, probably, because the way he described it truly didn’t sound that bad. 

“Come on; just tell me the truth.”

He considered her for a long moment before shrugging his shoulders. “Alright,” he said, exhaling heavily. “You’ll find out soon enough anyway. The Rite also removes a mage’s capacity for emotion, rendering them more… docile.”

Shepard’s mouth dropped open at his words, aghast, and it was probably the first time during the course of her stay here that she felt honestly repulsed by their ways. “You break our emotions and turn us into mindless husks?! Are you fucking with me?” He said nothing, but his grim expression told her that he was not, in fact, fucking with her. “My God. That’s some next-level dystopian shit, Rutherford.”

He folded his arms across his chest, a muscle twitching in his jaw, though he proceeded in a reasonable tone. “It is not a task I take pleasure in, but it is sometimes a necessity.”

“Right, right; it’s good for us,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Freedom is slavery, and all that.”

“Would you rather we just execute mages instead?” he bristled. “Or perhaps leave them to become abominations? You saw how well that works last night.”

“I’d rather be punished for a crime I’ve committed than for something I have the potential to do,” she retorted, pushing off of the pew to square up to him, though at a head shorter than him standing really didn’t make that much of a difference. “Because believe me, I have the potential to kill you in a _lot_ of different ways.”

“That’s great. Threaten me more. That’ll really help you out in the Gallows.” She merely glared at him, quickly losing all interest in conversing reasonably, and Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck once more. “It may be difficult for you to believe, but some mages opt to undergo the Rite themselves. They do not want the power you yield, nor the danger that comes with it. They don’t want to face the constant risk of demon possession, and I don’t blame them for that.”

“That’s their decision. But I’m guessing the majority don’t volunteer.”

“It is… a last resort,” he repeated, though the fact he still refused to meet her eyes made her think that wasn’t quite true. “There is little point in speaking of this further,” he muttered. “Do not concern yourself with Tranquility; I’m sure you will pass your Harrowing when the time comes.”

“Harrowing?” she echoed suspiciously.

“It is a test of your abilities. You like fighting; you’ll probably enjoy it.”

She couldn’t argue with him there, but it wasn’t everyone’s idea of a fun time. “And Agata will have to go through that too?”

He shook his head. “Not until she is ready. It will be years before she’s even considered.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” Shepard exhaled, hopping onto her perch again, deliberately clattering her feet against the wood and dislodging mud onto the floor. She was annoyed, but at herself more than anything; for a brief moment she was actually enjoying his company, amused by his bashfulness and approving of his kindness towards the girl. Stockholm Syndrome, probably. He looked at her for a long moment and then, turning from her briefly, picked up a bundle of garments on the pew and proffered them to her.

“Here,” he said brusquely. “I found this in the back whilst we were looking for clothes for Agata. I thought you might like a change of clothes.”

“I’m fine in my armour,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.

“Your armour is falling apart; at this point it’s more of a hazard than a help.”

He was right, of course; it had already been wrecked by the Crucible, and over the last few weeks it had gotten steadily worse, with Shepard having neither the time nor the tools to fix it. But it was her armour. It had been with her through it all, through the blood and the sweat and the anguish; it was _her_ , and all she had in this stupid world. She couldn’t just leave it behind.

She sighed, reaching out to fiddle with the fabric. She’d have to change at some point, but she wasn’t quite ready to let go just yet. Especially not for whatever fashion monstrosity the Templar had picked out; the material was far too flimsy, light green clashing with dark blue, and—

“Is this a _dress_?” she exclaimed, pulling the garment out of his grasp and allowing it to unfold; the hem fluttered to the floor, her suspicions proved correct by a musty, floor-length gown. Actually, ‘gown’ was far too complimentary a word; it was more like a drape. Or a tent. “You want me to wear a dress?!”

“It is a _robe_. Standard issue magewear.”

“Look at the cut; it’s so unflattering!” she exclaimed, holding it up to her body; it was at least six inches too long for her, sagging at the chest, too thin at the arms and too wide at the hips. “And what is this, cotton? How are you meant to fight in cotton? One stray knife and you’re done for!”

“No-one here is going to throw a knife at you, Shepard. Except maybe me, but I’ve resisted so far.” She blinked, the corner of her mouth quirking up at the unexpected moment of deadpan. He could actually be quite witty when he wasn’t being such a bore. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean— that wasn’t intended as a threat,” he stumbled, immediately ruining the fleeting good impression she’d had of him. “I just—”

“Don’t worry, Rutherford. I’m not remotely threatened by you.” He rolled his eyes, but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips, one which he valiantly fought against. “As for this… thing,” she said, holding the garment at arm’s length. “I appreciate the thought. But I can’t lose my armour.”

“You won’t be able to wear it in the Circle,” he warned her.

“Then I’ll have to get as much use as I can out of it now.”

“Indeed,” he nodded, taking the robe from her and carefully folding it once more. “I will - uh - see if the Revered Mother can get that bath for you. And if there’s any bandages to redress your hands.” He began to move away from her, but only got six paces before he stopped stopped in his tracks. “Oh!” he exclaimed, swivelling back round to face her and glancing down to her unbound hands, as though he’d briefly forgotten how much of a flight risk she was. “Um…”

“I’ll just come with you,” Shepard offered, jumping off her seat and following him. “It saves me from getting tied to a statue of Andraste.”

“I wouldn’t tie you to a statue of Andraste; that would be sacrilege. And the Revered Mother would probably have me flogged.”

She almost laughed at that, but caught herself just in time. _Shit_ , she cursed inwardly. _Definitely Stockholm syndrome_.

\---

Cullen, unfortunately, had learnt from his previous mistakes; he pushed their journey on faster over the next couple of days, making sure they reached a town with a Chantry by nightfall. He’d stopped drugging Shepard, that was something, but at least with his sleeping draughts her nights had been dreamless; now she was being startled awake every night by explosions and dead friends, and she was more tired come the morning. Distance from the source material wasn’t doing anything to help them; if anything, the dreams were getting worse. On one particularly bad night, as she’d watched Thane bleed out in front of her, she’d awoken covered in sweat and unable to catch her breath, and it was only the urgent whispers of Cullen and another Templar that reoriented her to her new broken reality.

With the rotating retinue of Templars at each Chantry guarding them Shepard could barely go to the bathroom without being watched like a hawk, let alone find an opportunity to escape. But a small part of her understood their vigilance now; she’d seen first-hand what a mage could become, the havoc they could wreak, and though imprisonment wasn’t right there had to be _some_ way of ensuring people remained safe. Of course, she wasn’t a mage, but trying to explain that was just a waste of energy. As time went on, she was running out of ideas for escape which didn’t involve injuring the Knight-Captain in some way, and though pacifism was becoming more frustrating by the day she didn’t want to risk injuring Agata in the fight. Or, worse, she didn’t want to end up killing the Templar and getting stuck with the kid. 

Not that the kid was bad; Shepard was actually impressed by how brave she’d been ever since getting picked up by them. There’d been few tears since the first day, and what Shepard had taken at first to be terrified silence she’d soon realised was more than that. She’d seen the way she occasionally glared at Cullen, heard the occasional remark sullen remark and, much to Shepard’s amusement, seen the dinner knife she’d shoved up her sleeve at their first meal together. Cullen had seen that one too, of course, and calmly requested she handed the weapon back over; she’d done so, begrudgingly, as Shepard had giggled into her soup. Her manner to Shepard was somewhat warmer; Shepard might even go as far as to say the girl was becoming attached, asking for her hair to be braided and stories before bed, all of which Shepard managed to fumble her way through whilst somehow endearing herself further to the child. Objectively, Cullen was still far better at looking after her, but objectivity wasn’t a great strength of young children; Cullen was a Templar, and Shepard was a mage, and so it was obvious which one she’d pick as an ally.

“Hey, kid,” Shepard said, several nights in, when they were eating dinner and Cullen was out of earshot. “I need to ask you something.” Agata didn’t speak but merely looked up at her, pale blue eyes wide and searching, and Shepard continued. “Did you get anyone… unusual come to stay in your village over the past month? A woman?”

Agata shrugged. “Not really. There’s a couple of traders that pass through every few months, but no-one new.”

“Are you sure? No-one that seemed a bit off to you?” Agata shook her head, and Shepard’s heart sunk, but she persisted regardless. “Perhaps someone who completely covered their face, so you couldn’t see who they were?”

“No-one like that. You’re the first visitors we’ve had for ages.”

“Oh,” Shepard said, turning back to her food. It was a long shot, she knew; none of the other discreet enquiries in the villages she’d passed through had given her any indication of Liara’s whereabouts either.

“Are you looking for someone?” Agata asked, curious, and after a moment’s consideration Shepard nodded. She wouldn’t have said anything in front of Cullen, for fear he’d start tracking Liara too, but she didn’t have to worry about Agata repeating this to him.

“My friend. I came here with her.”

“Is she a mage, too?”

“Um… sort of,” Shepard admitted hesitantly. Liara was as much of a mage as Shepard was, but of course she had the complicating factor of looking _bizarre_ out here. Agata frowned at the response.

“How is she sort of a mage?”

“Well… I just mean she’s a mage like me. She’s not from a Circle.”

“So you were apostates together?” Agata asked, face lighting up at the thought of others like them living free, and Shepard nodded. “What’s she like? Your friend?”

“I… you really want to know about Liara?” Shepard asked dubiously, and Agata nodded. “Alright, then. Let me tell you about the time we took down the Shadow Broker.”

\---

Shepard rose early the following morning, startled awake by a Collector beam shattering her Normandy into fragments.

Cullen, who she’d heard on more than one occasion muttering to his own invisible demons, was sound asleep, though still rigid as he slept propped up against a wall. Agata too was sleeping soundly, curled up next to Shepard on the makeshift bed of furs, and it was oddly comforting, to feel the child’s warm body next to hers. But not everyone in the Chantry slept; she could hear voices just outside the room and, as was the habit of a lifetime, she crept closer towards the door to make out the words.

The noise turned out to be from two other Templars in the Chantry, sitting on the first pew and chatting easily with each other. She could see them through a crack in the door, and as quietly as she could she pushed it open a jot more in order to hear them speak.

“—strange, isn’t it?” one of them was saying. “We don’t get any apostates for years, then three come along in the same week.”

“Did you see the other one? She was _weird_.”

Shepard’s ears pricked up at that, desperate for some sign that might lead her to Liara.

“Yeah. What was with the full veil? She refused to take it down, even for the Revered Mother.”

That _definitely_ got Shepard’s attention; she instinctively leaned further forward, cursing herself as the door creaked under her weight. The two Templars looked up but, on seeing no-one emerge from the room, continued their conversation.

“Plus I’ve never heard the name _Liara_ in my life. She must be a Witch of the Wilds. Or one of those Avvar abominations.”

“Well, I’m sure Knight-Commander Meredith will make her take off those robes. They have no tolerance at the Gallows for abnormal behaviour.”

Shepard’s stomach dropped to the floor like a stone. _Liara_. Liara had been caught by the _fucking_ Templars, just as she had. She was surprised they hadn’t killed her outright; she was endlessly glad the Asari had had the foresight to disguise herself, because Shepard dreaded to think what the Templars might do on discovering a blue woman.

But that disguise wouldn’t last long, as the Templars had said; she was sure to be made to show her face sooner or later, and when they did that… Shepard’s stomach twisted into knots just thinking about it. Liara could hold herself in a fight, but biotics were her strength, and once they’d been cancelled she had none of Shepard’s melee training to fall back on. Shepard needed to get to her, and quickly, and damnit that meant going the one place she was trying to run away from. There was no point in ditching Cullen yet; she had no idea the best way to Kirkwall, and was sure to get there quicker with his guidance. But she’d never get her chance to find Liara if she was under the Templar’s constant gaze, and even if she did escaping from the city would be a whole lot more complicated. She needed to lose him at precisely the right moment to get in - and back out - of the city quickly, with her friend in one piece.

She heard Cullen stir, and she jumped, quickly padding back to her makeshift bed and diving under the covers before he found her out of bed. If she was going to pull this off, she was going to have to do some serious planning first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter - I'm diving into Andromeda for a while (as I'm sure many of you are) but should still be updating about twice a week! Thanks for the continued feedback, it's all very much appreciated :)


	10. Chapter 10

The second week of their journey passed largely without incident. Agata seemed to have resigned herself to her fate, sullen but not disruptive; Shepard on the other hand was downright pleasant at times, though Cullen suspected she had an ulterior motive. Not that he minded; when she wasn’t sniping at him - or _flirting_ with him, which she now did relentlessly and with a vindictive sort of glee - she was actually quite entertaining. He’d escorted his fair share of mages back to the Circle in his day, but none of them had been quite like Shepard. She had an almost childlike fascination with the world, eager to learn as much as she could about Thedas; as he became more comfortable with her, and became quite sure that her questions weren’t a trap, he’d had a number of stimulating conversations on subjects ranging from religion to history to astronomy. Likewise, he found her tales from beyond the Amaranthine Ocean fascinating; stories of surviving suicide missions and infiltrating parties and discovering lost ruins, all regaled with a characteristic flourish, and even if they weren’t true she still told them remarkably well. She was ignorant of many of their ways, yes, but she wasn’t stupid by any means; the more he spoke with her, the more he came to view her as an intelligent - if somewhat eccentric - woman, who he occasionally, and only for the briefest of moments, found himself forgetting was even a mage. In a strange way, she was good company.

Barring the night of the fire she hadn’t even attempted to escape him, something which she could have at least tried on a number of occasions. She could have just been luring him into a false sense of security, waiting for the ideal moment when his guard was down to strangle him, but she honestly didn’t seem the sort to attempt murder whilst his back was turned. Once her hands had healed, he’d tied them but not covered them; even if she were to launch another escape attempt, he trusted she was a decent enough person not to injure him fatally. 

_Trust_. That was _never_ something he thought he’d feel around a mage again, but Shepard had proved herself; she’d saved his life twice now, though she’d stood to gain little each time. There was something… freeing, about being around a mage without constantly feeling the need to look over his shoulder, about not feeling so terrified of magic all the time. But that comfort, in its own way, was also unsettling. When he’d first been stationed in Kirkwall he’d been angry, hateful, and scared, sure that the harshness of the Circle was required to keep people safe; as time had gone on some of that had faded, leaving regret amongst all that fear. He knew that it wasn’t right, what had happened at Kirkwall whilst he’d been there; Meredith had been an inspiration at first, but he’d seen her become a shadow of herself, twisted by the very things he was afraid of too. Or perhaps she’d always been that way, but he just hadn’t been able to see it until now. Regardless, though he knew things needed to change for the good of both the people of the city and its mages, he just didn’t know _how_ , and meeting Shepard had strengthened that belief yet not provided any further insight on how to deal with it.

The only thing that worried him was her nightmares; mages and bad dreams, in his experience, inevitably meant trouble. He’d heard her fighting most nights against invisible foes; sometimes it was merely a mumble of dissent, whilst on other occasions she was visibly distressed as she tossed and turned in her sheets. Though she clearly had good control of her magic during the day, she was also untrained in resisting demons, the night of the fire apparently being her first experience with them; she’d gotten this far in life without becoming possessed, but every night presented a new danger both to her and to the people around her. It was that, more than anything, which kept him committed to his path when his resolve threatened to waver; at least in the Gallows, he reasoned, the Enchanters would help prepare her for her dreams.

They reached Sundermount as the sun was beginning to set, and Cullen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that their journey was coming to an end. Agata was growing tired, and Shepard wasn’t helping by insisting they rest for the night, but Cullen was keen to push on to Kirkwall; they were so close now, and he didn’t want to risk falling at the final hurdle. In addition, the area was where a Dalish clan were known to camp, and he doubted they would look kindly on his group encroaching on their territory.

Cullen could feel rather than see eyes on them as they traversed the mountains, and his suspicions were proved correct when he reached the base; a dozen elves, men and women, were approaching them, looking particularly disgruntled at their presence.

“Hold, shem,” one elf said, stepping forward towards the group and glaring at them; Cullen instinctively drew himself up taller on his horse. “You’re trespassing on our encampment; state your business here.”

“You elves do not own this land,” Cullen said bluntly, refusing to show any indication of weakness; he was a Templar, after all, and had the authority to travel as he pleased. “I am the Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Circle, and I demand you let us pass.”

“Your kind has no authority over the People,” another elf piped up now, slightly smaller than the first but no less angry-looking.

“The Chantry has divine authority over all these lands. You ought to be glad we do not pay closer scrutiny to those in your midst,” he said, a pointed glare at one elf carrying something suspiciously staff-shaped on her back. That, however, did not seem to be a wise statement; an angry whisper started up amongst them, with vague but distinctively threatening gestures towards Cullen. His grip tightened on his reigns as his horse began to pace nervously, and a quick glance over showed Agata to look just as worried. He needed to get this over with, and quickly. “I will not ask again—”

“No, you won’t,” one near the back piped up, readying his bow and pulling an arrow from his quiver, and Cullen was a breath away from drawing his sword in response but Shepard beat him to action; she hopped down off her horse, approaching the first elf with her hands raised.

“I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt,” she said genially, and Cullen saw the elf reach for the knives on his belt, but thankfully his hands just rested there. “Hi. Commander Shepard. Your tattoos are _fascinating_ ,” she said, gazing into the elf’s face, who was regarding her with a mixture of confusion and outrage. “They’re absolutely beautiful, actually. Is there some story behind them?”

“Have you lost your mind, shem?”

“Not at all; I’ve just not met someone like you before, and I’ve certainly never seen tattoos like _this_ ,” she said, indicating to his face. “I have a tattoo, but that’s just because I take stupid dares when I’m drunk.”

“Our vallaslin are a sacred rite of passage,” he replied. “You would understand nothing of it.”

“But I’d like to try,” she persisted, sincerity in her voice. “I think learning about other cultures is the most important thing anyone can do. My best friend, our people used to be in a big war, and if I’d gone through my whole life thinking ‘turians are all uptight busybodies’ - or if he’d thought ‘humans are all hotheaded bullies’ - then I would never have known what an amazing friendship I was missing out on.”

“That’s not a bad description of humans.”

“I’d be willing to try and prove you wrong,” Shepard countered, and Cullen was far too confused by the proceedings to intervene; he _thought_ she was helping the situation, though there was a chance he was very mistaken and the elves were merely buying time to plan their attack. The main elf considered Shepard for a moment, before looking up at Cullen, eyes wary.

“So what happened here? The Chantry dog catch you and your daughter performing ‘blood magic’?”

“Oh, she’s not my daughter,” Shepard waved dismissively. “And no blood magic, either. Just two innocent apostates in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He considered her again, before relaxing his grip on his knives. “We’ll take this to the Keeper. She can decide what is to be done with you.”

\---

Thankfully, Shepard’s quick thinking seemed to eclipse Cullen bullheadedness; at least they were no longer aiming their weapons at them as they escorted them to their ‘Keeper’. They’d made Cullen dismount from his horse, which had almost caused another fight, and how this man had survived thus far in life without getting stabbed was a mystery to Shepard. She, of course, was in her element. She’d always adored learning about different species, had been thrilled to fill the Normandy to the brim with the most fascinating people who she could learn so much from. It was strange; when it had been solely an Alliance vessel she’d been more distant with her crew, maintaining regs and ensuring they looked up to her as their Commander. But when the ship was Cerberus… then she’d thrived, spent hours with those she’d recruited just learning about them, and taking a twisted pleasure in having so many aliens on a humanity-first vessel. In truth, she’d always been closer to the aliens on her ship than the humans; maybe it was because with the humans she’d had a rank to maintain, a standard to set as the First Human Spectre, or maybe it was simply because the aliens were so much more interesting. Regardless of her motivations, she couldn’t help but feel a little excited about the opportunity to discover a whole new species - of _elves_ , if Cullen was to be believed - though she hoped Cullen wouldn’t get them killed before she got to the really good questions.

Within a few minutes’ walk the elves had led them to what seemed to be their settlement; a small expanse of land, packed with strange makeshift houses and yet more elves who whispered on their approach. There was only one of the group - a woman, perhaps the oldest of them all - who didn’t seem completely on edge; she approached them with an easy smile, arms stretched towards them.

“Andaran atish’an,” she said, and Shepard frowned at the unusual language which her translator didn’t recognise. “Fenarel, who are these guests you bring to us?”

The elf called Fenarel frowned, crossing his arms. “This shem thinks he has _divine authority_ to come and go as he pleases through our home, and threaten our clanmates whilst he’s at it.”

“Is that so?” the elder elf asked, and Shepard noticed a distinct twinkle in her eye.

“I merely requested passage to cross through to Kirkwall,” Cullen said, in his best attempt at a reasonable voice.

“There was no request,” Fenarel snapped, “he demanded—”

“You’ll have to forgive the younger members of our clan,” the elder elf cut Fenarel off with a quick but deadly glare. “We haven’t had the best experience with your Templars in recent years.”

“No,” Cullen agreed, stiffening, and Shepard feared she’d have to intervene again soon. “As I recall, your clan refused to hand over a dangerous apostate to our care.”

“We had a little help from your Champion on that matter,” she returned, losing some of her geniality, as the elves around her grew visibly restless.

“You really don’t give up, do you?” Shepard asked, and Cullen turned his stony glare towards her. “Have you ever once thought to yourself - ‘ooh, this one looks pretty capable; you know what, I might just turn a blind eye this time’?”

“If that is what you think, you have woefully underestimated both the Templars and myself.”

“Or I’ve overestimated your survival instinct.”

“And this would be your prey?” the leader said, turning to look at Shepard with interest. “You’re rather spirited, for a mage a day away from the Gallows.”

“What can I say? I’m an eternal optimist,” Shepard shrugged, sticking her still-tied hands out towards the woman. Many of the nearby elves jumped, a few even readying their weapons, but the leader showed no sign of fear. “Commander Shepard. Good to meet you. Excuse the ropes.”

“Keeper Marethari,” she replied, taking one hand and shaking it firmly. “And who would this be?” she asked, turning towards Agata, who was trying her best to appear invisible behind Shepard.

“This is another unfortunate apostate sentenced to life at the Gallows. Agata, say hello,” Shepard encouraged, and she reluctantly gave a small wave.

“Andaran atish’an,” the Keeper repeated, with the most genuine smile Shepard had seen thus far. “You have nothing to fear from us, dah’len. You must be hungry; have you come far?”

“I’m from Wildervale.”

“Creators; such a long way! You must be feeling the cold too, now you’re getting so close to the Waking Sea.” Agata nodded, and as the Keeper smiled encouragingly Shepard found herself warming to her. “Well then; how about you take food and shelter here for the night, and make the rest of your journey when the morning comes?” Both Cullen and Fenarel instantly began to protest to that, but Marethari raised a hand to silence them. “What do you say, Commander Shepard?”

“A stay of execution would be nice,” she replied, grinning at the Keeper, and she could practically feel Cullen glaring daggers at her from her flank. “Plus I’d love to hear more about your culture.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll set up the campfire, and I’ll ask Hahren Paivel to share with you some of our stories and ways.”

“Keeper, I must—”

“I have spoken, Fenarel,” Marethari said, voice firm in a way that left no room for further protest. “And you will join us at the fire; you stand to learn as much from the shemlen as they do from us.”

The group of elves - _clan of Dalish_ , Shepard quickly learnt was a better description - were suspicious at first to say the least; as Shepard sat down at the campfire with Marethari a number of the elves began whispering angrily amongst themselves, shooting Shepard and Cullen looks which only could be described as _icy_. Cullen, too, looked completely uncomfortable at the prospect of staying there the night; though he followed them to the campfire he refused to sit, instead hovering with his arms crossed and returning the elves’ glare. And so it was up to Shepard - and to a lesser extent Agata - to earn the elves’ favour. 

Shepard didn’t think she did badly, by any stretch; an occasional question offended some of the more glarey hunters, but Keeper Marethari always answered her with a sort of easy grace. As the night went on Agata warmed to the people too, which did much to help them; whilst many of the clan were wary of Shepard and distrusted Cullen, the girl was an innocent, and one who it was hard not to grow fond of. Shepard learnt much of them over the next few hours; their Gods (who sounded much more fun and prone to drama than Cullen’s Maker and Andraste), their vallaslin, their halla and a hint of their history were regaled, and Shepard listened raptly to the whole thing. And as the night progressed, and despite the elves’ obvious mistrust of humans (which sounded, by their account at least, an understandable reaction), it was perhaps the first time since arriving in Thedas that Shepard had felt welcomed by anyone; at least here no-one called her _mage_ with that sneer, talking to Cullen rather than her, thinly veiled threats at the mere hint of magic. Hell, the clan even respected magic; the Keeper was a mage, and without her Shepard was sure there would have been a fight hours ago.

At least she knew that if she couldn’t get back home, this was always a place to lie low from the Templars.

Eventually, however, the night began to wind down, and Shepard felt a sense of dread set in. This was the last night; the last opportunity for her to slip away, and she knew she had to take whatever chance she got. She also knew that meant leaving behind Agata, which was… discomforting. She liked the girl a great deal, but even if her plan wasn’t to go to Kirkwall and break Liara out, there was just no way of taking her with her. Shepard was good at a great many things; she was a strong leader to her men and a good friend to those she was lucky enough to call such. But she wasn’t a mother. She could lead the child, tell her what to do, but she couldn’t raise her; couldn’t teach her about the world or how to control her magic. In short, the kid needed a parent, and Shepard couldn’t be that.

Shepard told herself that, whilst desperately ignoring what else she knew; that the Templars couldn’t provide for the kid any better than she could.

Marethari showed them to where they would rest, and so they settled down for the night. Agata was exhausted, having to be half-carried back to the tent by Cullen, and she was asleep as soon as her body hit the furs. Cullen let out a small chuckle at the sight of the child, before turning to Shepard.

“Alright. Hands.”

“Come on, Rutherford,” Shepard said, trying in vain to suppress a smirk. “You really think I’d put up with you for this long, only to kill you now?”

Cullen rolled his eyes, but she could see him smiling too. “Killing, no. Tying me up in my sleep and leaving me at the mercy of the Dalish? Absolutely.” He reached out for her wrists, but she quickly dodged out of his reach, eyes going wide as she affected a pout.

“But how will we finally have our night of passion before we’re torn apart by the Circle?”

“That question will haunt me forever, I’m sure,” he returned, and obviously he’d been around her far too long by this point if he was now able to respond to questions like that without stuttering. “Hands,” he repeated, and with an emphatic sigh Shepard stuck them out towards him, and he made quick work of tying them together. He indicated for her to sit, and he crouched down next to her, securing her bindings to part of the fabric of the tent.

“On second thought, tying me up needn’t get in the way too much—”

“ _Shepard_ ,” he cut her off warningly, though the threat in his voice was outweighed by the blush on his cheeks. “Maker’s breath. You know you can’t talk to me like this once you’re in the Circle?”

“Because you won’t be able to resist?”

“I mean it,” he said, looking her straight in the eye now as he finished with her bindings, his voice firm. “You—I don’t want…” he sighed as he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is forbidden for mages and Templars to be in any way involved.”

“Ooh, calling it _forbidden_ makes it sound—”

“Damnit, I’m serious!” he snapped, surprising Shepard; she jumped slightly, instantly falling silent. Cullen sighed, starting again in a quieter but no less serious voice. “If anyone heard you saying this sort of thing to me, and got the wrong impression, I would be thrown out of the Order and you would be made Tranquil. That is without question.”

“They’d make me Tranquil for flirting with you?” Shepard asked, arching an eyebrow. “So much for it being a ‘last resort’.”

“You’re allegedly in the army. Don’t you have rules about fraternisation?”

“Yeah, but we don’t get shot for it,” Shepard retorted. He still regarded her critically, mouth set in a grim line, and she sighed. “Fine. I wouldn’t want to jeopardise your sterling career.”

“I would rather not see you made Tranquil, either,” he said, softening a little. “I would not wish that fate on you.”

Shepard groaned, rubbing her forehead. “You need to relax. Just because I make the odd inappropriate joke doesn’t mean people are going to think we’re fucking.”

“Shh!” he hissed, gesturing towards Agata, and Shepard snickered. “ _Please_ , Shepard. Just promise me once we get there you’ll be a bit more restrained. At least in the beginning.”

“Alright then,” she said. “But you have to promise me something.” He nodded, and she continued, earnest with him for what was probably the first time since she’d arrived in Thedas - though it was a serious subject, and one she’d considered at length over the past week. “If they ever try to make me Tranquil, and I can’t find a way out by myself, will you please just kill me?” She meant it, too; she had no intention of getting taken to the Gallows, and she’d quite happily fight them to the death if need be, but if the worst happened and they insisted on _changing_ her she needed some contingency plan. If he wouldn’t let her be free, he at least owed her a clean death.

“I didn’t drag you all this way for you to be made Tranquil,” he told her simply, but on seeing something in her face his tone changed. “But I promise all the same.”

\---

It wasn’t all that hard for Shepard to escape once she’d set her mind to it. It was hardly the most elaborate or glamorous escape; pocketing a knife from dinner was so annoyingly simple that even Agata had done it on her first night, and the showman in Shepard would have much preferred her departure from Cullen to be a masterpiece of ingenuity and intellect. Sawing through her ropes with a blunt table knife hardly made her Steve McQueen, but it got the job done. To be honest, she could have done it much earlier, but that would have deprived her of Cullen’s _riveting_ company.

That was a little unfair, she thought, watching him sleep fitfully as she filed away at her ropes. He really wasn’t _that_ bad; at times, when he’d forgotten himself, he’d had shining moments of wit and intelligence. He was principled, too, she couldn’t fault him that, even if those principles were at direct odds with hers; though even now, she couldn’t quite tell whether they were based in a misplaced sense of righteousness or blind duty. She categorically refused to _like_ him, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to hate him, either. 

If nothing else, he’d helped her to make some sense of the world she’d found herself in. There were still gaps; questions she couldn’t ask on the intricacies of magic that would probably forever be a mystery to her. But she now had a tentative grasp of how things worked here; she understood that the Chantry’s word was paramount, that fear of mages stemmed from an age-old conflict with a place to the north called Tevinter, that the city of Kirkwall was coming off its own conflict with a people called the Qunari. Even Cullen’s homeland was fresh from a battle with an ancient evil force; reading between the lines, peace sounded like a very precarious thing in Thedas. There was a time when she might have wanted to do something about that, to help rectify the obvious injustice to the mages in this land, but she was too tired to keep fighting; there would always be some new foe to battle or wrong to right, and if she didn’t rest now she never would. One universe was already saved because of her; someone else could handle this one.

She slipped out of the tent easily, tiptoeing around Cullen’s sprawling limbs, a final, regretful glance back at Agata before she let the tent flap fall back behind her. She shook her head, trying to free it of the guilt wedged firmly in the base of her skull at the sight of the small, fragile child. There would be time for that guilt later, and by later she meant never, pushing it firmly into that ever-expanding box with her crew and the Geth. She’d done worse to people she’d owed much more, and the kid would probably be fine; she trusted Cullen, at least, to try and ensure her safety.

No, Liara’s safety was the important thing right now. She’d already wasted enough time in her travelling; Liara could be unmasked by now, or worse. She shuddered at the thought, slipping into the shadows as she started her journey down the mountain towards Kirkwall. Once she had Liara onside, then she could focus on the next task - somehow getting out of this godforsaken place, and getting home.

Well, not home. The place she called home was likely destroyed, flotsam amongst the stars; she’d have to find a new home in her universe, once she was back. But at least back in the Milky Way there was electricity and space travel and the perks of being Spectre to keep her busy for the next century. That sounded much better than a world of Templars and demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter because I got bored and threw two half-written chapters together to try and speed things up. Stay tuned for gratuitous cameos from another captain and everyone's favourite dwarf!


	11. Chapter 11

Shepard arrived in Kirkwall a little before sunset, talking her way past the guards on the city gates with some nonsense about a cure for a sick noble. A few well-placed questions later and she was directed to the part of the city called Lowtown, with the aim of seeking out a tavern there; apparently if there was anyone strange to be found in the city, they’d be found in the Hanged Man.

She pitched up at the bar, ordering some sort of ale as she ploughed the barkeep for information; he didn’t have appear to have much, merely shrugging when she asked if he’d had anyone unusual to stay. When she’d tried to dig deeper he’d cut her off, asking her to pay up for her drink, and Shepard’s heart sank as she remembered she didn’t have a penny to her name here.

“How about this,” Shepard attempted to placate the man. “Create a tab for me, and I’ll pay when I’m done. I’m good for it; I’m working this job running—”

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” he scoffed. “You’ve got two choices: pay or leave.”

Shepard was just formulating a third option when two coins rolled across the bar to the man; he huffed but accepted them without further fuss, and Shepard turned to face her benefactor. It was a woman, with brown skin and generous curves, and who - in Shepard’s humble opinion - was absolutely _stunning_ , though there was a good chance she was entirely too distracted by her neckline to form an objective opinion on her looks.

“Interesting choice of armour,” she said as she looked Shepard up and down, her full lips curving into a smirk.

“Says the woman without any trousers.”

The woman laughed, signalling for the barkeep to bring her a drink; he did so without even asking for her order, and she took a swig of her ale before speaking again. “I just got you out of a sticky spot there; the least you could say is thank you. I’ve seen Corff make patrons who can’t pay scrub the floors for a week.”

“Well, thank you, from saving me from a life of manual labour. Miss…?”

“Isabela,” she said, then adding with a grin, “Captain.”

Shepard returned the smile, pleased to find a woman of rank amongst the bar’s rabble. “Shepard. Commander.”

“Ooh, fancy. And what exactly do you command, Commander?” she asked, leaning in closer and grazing Shepard’s arm with hers. It sent two distinct emotions crashing through Shepard almost in synchrony; a wave of desire spread through her belly as an unmistakable sense of guilt crept up her neck, and she jolted as though she’d been electrocuted. She scolded herself for the ridiculous reaction; Thane was dead, and was past caring who Shepard found attractive, but that logic didn’t stop her from averting her eyes and fiddling distractedly with her flagon.

“A ship,” she said once she had regained herself. “Although I’m… bereft of ship at this precise moment.”

“Oh, I know what _that’s_ like. We should form a club,” Isabela sighed, knocking her drink back and signalling for another. “So is that what brings you to Lowtown? Shipwreck?”

“Something like that,” Shepard shrugged. “You?”

“Yeah. Something like that, too,” Isabela said, accepting her second drink with a wink to the bartender. “But I’ve got some great tips for moored pirates looking to get a foothold in Kirkwall, if you’re interested.”

“Actually, I’m looking for one of my crew,” Shepard told her. “I have reason to believe she’s been brought here.”

“Brought here?” Isabela asked with a frown. “But who would… oh, _shit_ ,” Isabela muttered, putting her drink back on the bar with slightly too much force. “Typical. The first good-looking woman in the Hanged Man for a month wants help springing someone from the Templars. Varric!” she shouted over her shoulder, and Shepard rushed to quieten her.

“No, wait, don’t—”

“Oh, relax,” Isabela dismissed her, turning towards this Varric, who Shepard was surprised to find was a whole foot shorter than her. “Varric, have you seen Hawke or Anders around tonight?”

“Hawke’s off saving the city with our Guard-Captain and I’m sure Blondie is busy brooding over his manifesto in his clinic. Why? Looking to start a game of Diamondback?”

“Our friend here’s looking to… I assume break someone out of the Gallows?” she said, turning to Shepard for reassurance.

“You could be a bit more discreet about it,” Shepard mumbled.

“Discreet isn’t really my thing. So, Hightown or Darktown?”

“Darktown,” the dwarf said firmly. “If anyone knows a good way in and out of the Gallows, it’s Blondie.”

“Thank you,” Shepard said emphatically. “Now where exactly would Darktown be?”

“I’m not really sure you should be going to Darktown alone, at this time of night,” Varric said, eyeing her dubiously, and Shepard folded her arms across her chest.

“I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Varric raised his hands in defence, “but your armour’s falling to shit and you’re not even carrying a weapon. You either need to buy some new gear or find yourself a couple of mercs.”

Shepard looked him up and down. “Your crossbow looks like it could handle itself in a fight.”

Varric laughed. “I’m not for hire, and neither is Bianca.”

“That’s good, because I don’t have any money.”

“I needed to swing by the clinic anyway,” Isabela offered. “For… reasons. We can drag Anders back for a game of Diamondback once he’s finished saving the Circle one mage at a time.”

“He’ll never be finished doing that. Andraste’s ass,” Varric muttered. “Fine! One trip to Darktown, but you owe us a round once we’re finished. And once you find some gold.”

They moved out of the tavern once Isabela had finished her drink, her new companions moving through the streets with a familiarity which told Shepard that, firstly, they’d been in the city some time, and secondly, that they were used to taking part in questionable tasks like this. They had no qualms about taking shortcuts through dusty sidestreets and past suspicious figures lurking in the shadows, and she was rather glad of their company; though she could fight her way past any thugs who tried to ambush her, it was probably best to remain discreet.

“You’re pretty trusting of a woman you just met in a bar,” Shepard noted as she followed the pair.

“ _You’re_ pretty trusting of a dwarf and pirate you just met in a bar,” Varric returned. “Seriously; we could just be leading you to some darkened alleyway to steal your armour.”

“Or we could be leading you to the Templars,” Isabela chipped in.

“You don’t really look like two people who do much associating with Templars,” Shepard smiled. “No offence.”

“Well, _you_ could be. This could be a ruse to make us show you the best passages of the Mage Underground. Why are we doing this again, Rivaini?”

Isabela shrugged. “I don’t know. Hawke does this sort of thing all the time.”

“Yeah, and that never turns out badly for her,” Varric muttered.

“So who’s this friend of yours?” Shepard asked. “The one you’re taking me to meet.”

“Anders,” Isabela told her. “Very Mage Rights. Spends half his time sneaking mages out of the Gallows.”

“And the Templars haven’t caught him yet?”

“His friendship with Hawke protects him a lot from them,” Varric said, adding at her bemused expression; “don’t worry; the more time you spend in this city, the more you’ll hear about Hawke. She fought a dragon last week.”

“I was there too!” Isabela protested. “But no-one cares about poor old Isabela almost getting set on fire.”

“But tell us about your friend,” Varric said, honing back in on Shepard and looking up at her shrewdly.

“Liara,” Shepard said. “She’s one of my crew. I have reason to believe that she was caught by—”

“Shh,” Isabela hissed, throwing her arm out in front of Shepard and Varric, who halted.

“What is it, Rivaini?” Varric whispered back.

“I don’t know.” Isabela peered back and forth along the small Darktown alleyway, and Shepard was glad she didn’t have to spend any extended period of time in the area; it was awful, rotting bricks and filthy floors, the stench of decay lingering in the air. 

“I don’t hear anything,” Varric hissed again.

“Exactly. Darktown’s never this—”

“Lower your weapons.”

All three of them pivoted on the spot, turning towards the commanding female voice; Shepard found herself face-to-face with a stern looking woman, a decade or two older than her and wearing, Shepard realised with a sinking feeling, Templar armour. Very elaborate Templar amour. She was flanked by at least a dozen other Templars, each with their weapons raised.

“Is this her, Cullen?” the woman asked, stepping towards Shepard, sword still raised and pointed at Shepard’s heart. Shepard’s eyes flicked to the left of her, noticing for the first time Cullen, looking equally as stern as the woman, sword also drawn. He glared at Shepard, none of the geniality he’d had during those final days of their journey now present in his features.

“That’s her, Knight-Commander.”

“Cuff her,” the woman - Meredith, Shepard realised it must be - ordered almost lazily, and Shepard quickly threw up a barrier around herself and her new companions as one of the Knight-Commander’s Templars closed in. She felt one of them move to cancel it, and she grit her teeth, fighting with all her might against the suppression of her abilities, but it was no use; she lasted about fifteen seconds before her shield flickered and died, leaving her feeling utterly drained.

“You would be wise not to fight us,” Meredith said, and Shepard was too tired to fight as another Templar closed in, cuffing her hands behind her back. “My Knight-Captain’s recommendations were not to kill you, but I won’t think twice about striking you down if you attack any of my men.”

“Awh, you do care,” Shepard said sarcastically to Cullen, and then, because she couldn’t resist, “although you did tell me you didn’t have a girlfriend. My poor heart is breaking into a thousand tiny pieces.”

Cullen flushed beetroot at that, looking as though he was sorely tempted to kill her after all. Instead, with what appeared to be a great amount of self-control, he turned towards Varric. “Is there some reason you’re assisting this apostate, dwarf?”

“They didn’t know what I am,” Shepard answered quickly, but the Knight-Commander scoffed.

“I doubt that would have changed anything; I know the type they consort with. Leave,” she ordered to Shepard’s companions, and they each shot her a sympathetic sideways glance.

“Sorry,” Isabela said.

“Yeah,” Varric agreed. “Although just do us a favour, and wait until we’re fifty feet clear before making any deals with demons.”

Isabela and Varric slunk away into the shadows, leaving Shepard alone with her horde of Templars; Cullen obviously hadn’t undersold the risk she presented, which in a way was flattering. What she didn’t understand, however, was how they had been so quick - and so accurate - in finding her after her escape. Before she could formulate any question about that, however, Meredith spoke.

“Now, do you plan on resisting us further, or will you return to the Gallows with us?”

Shepard smiled wryly. “Resistance seems pretty futile at this point.”

“Indeed,” Meredith agreed, nodding to the Templars who now flanked her, and she felt a strong hand in the small of her back, pushing her forward. She turned, seeing that the hand belonged to Cullen, who was staring resolutely forward as they began their march to the Gallows, although a hint of blush lingered on his cheeks.

“Alright, I have to ask; how did you find me so quickly?” 

Much to her surprise, Cullen smirked, the look of a man who had just won a great tactical game. “You’re looking to get your apostate friend out of the Gallows without attracting suspicion. There are few who know discreet ways in and out of the Gallows, and fewer still who are as vocal about it as Hawke and her friends. There weren’t any other places you could go.”

“If you’ve done _anything_ to hurt her…” Shepard warned, and though she was hardly fighting from a strong position she didn’t care; he needed to know that if Liara had been hurt in any way, that with her final breath she’d take them down. Cullen paid no attention to her threats, however, and instead scoffed.

“Shepard, we don’t even have her.”

“Don’t lie to me; I heard—”

“—two Templars loudly discussing her in the room next to yours? How fortuitous.”

Her stomach dropped like a stone as she realised the implications of his words; he’d actually _tricked_ her, forced her to run directly towards her cage. “ _Fuck_ ,” she muttered, though there was a smile in her voice and on her lips, and it was perhaps the first time in the course of their journey that she respected him. “Well played, Knight-Captain.”

\---

Cullen didn’t linger long once Shepard had been successfully escorted to the Gallows; he watched Orsino take some of her blood for her phylactery, and saw her introduced to Enchanter Bethany who, as another who had lived out of the Circle for so long, he hoped would be a good influence on her. He retired to the Templars’ quarters soon after, not bidding Shepard farewell; she was his charge now, and there was no longer room for her idle chit-chat.

He sat down on his bed, exhaling a long, steady breath as he tried to sort through the jumble of his thoughts. He hadn’t been surprised to wake up and find Shepard gone, but he had been… disappointed. The past few weeks had been challenging to say the least, but - and he hated to admit it even to himself - they’d been ever so slightly fun; he’d enjoyed sparring with her, enjoyed her stories, enjoyed trying to stay two steps ahead of her. _Fun_ was something he was unaccustomed to. He’d become so used to being The Knight-Captain that he’d almost forgotten how to be anything else, but Shepard had had such disregard for the title that some of his professionalism had slipped, loosing some of the burden from his shoulders and leaving his spirits lighter than they’d been in years, and he found he wasn’t quite ready to go back to his usual, unrelenting role. He resented her for that - and also for the way she’d left him. He could understand her wanting to escape him, but the way she’d gone about it had been cowardly; for all her talk of fairness and freedom she’d abandoned Agata, who’d been inconsolable in the morning to find herself alone with a Templar. Really, he shouldn’t have expected anything else from an apostate, but by the end she hadn’t been ‘apostate’; she’d just been Shepard. That was what made this the hardest.

He had only been sat down for a few minutes when his door opened once more; he jumped to his feet as Knight-Commander Meredith entered his quarters, and though she gestured for him to sit he remained standing. She observed him shrewdly for a few moments before speaking.

“You look tired, Cullen,” Meredith said, and he wasn’t sure if that was intended to be praise or criticism.

“I am,” he conceded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It has been… a trying few weeks.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Meredith agreed, folding her arms across her chest. “She seems a spirited young thing.”

Cullen almost smiled at that, but caught the expression in the nick of time. “That’s one word for it. But she’s ignorant of the Order, rather than against it. I believe she will adjust to life here well, once she gives it a chance.” In truth, he wasn’t convinced of that at all; Shepard was stubborn to a fault, and he wouldn’t put it past her to rebel just to spite him. He hoped she was smarter than that, though.

“And you’re quite sure she’s not a blood mage?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded, firm in that one belief if nothing else. Meredith, however, did not seem completely convinced, and so he continued. “She had multiple opportunities to turn on me, and she never took them. She may have ran in the end, but she never attacked me.”

“Then I will take your word for it. I know you went to great lengths to bring this apostate in, and I respect your dedication.” She eyed him warily for a moment, seeming to weigh up what she wanted to say next. “She’s different, I’ll give her that. Rather pretty, too.”

Cullen did not react too strongly to that; he couldn’t afford to. He _knew_ Shepard was pretty - he’d thought as much when they’d first met - but that had quickly been eclipsed by her magic and that damned mouth of hers. Letting Meredith know that he had, even transiently, thought as much was dangerous, but denying it point-blank was potentially an even worse approach. “I don’t see what relevance that has, Knight-Commander.”

“Merely an observation. Get some rest; in the morning I will discuss her Harrowing with Orsino. These things should not be left too late. Goodnight, Knight-Captain.”

She left the room, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts once more. He’d done the right thing, done his duty, but he still couldn’t shake an awful sense of foreboding he’d had ever since he’d arrived back in the Gallows. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d sentenced Shepard to death by bringing her here.


	12. Chapter 12

Within two days of being at the Gallows it became clear that Cullen had downplayed how truly awful the Circle was.

The fear amongst the mages within the place was palpable; whereas Shepard walked from place to place they scuttled, eyes always wide and searching for their captors, speaking in hushed tones and quickly falling into silence whenever a Templar appeared. The silence was the worst of it. It seemed like a type of torture designed specifically to break her; the studious lessons and the hastily eaten meals, the shushing from other mages when she tried to speak with them, all of it was smothering, and she knew given time it would break her. Shepard was a social creature to her very core; she needed friendship, needed companionship, just needed _someone_ to laugh with and keep her sane, but most mages barely looked at her for fear of being associated with an apostate. Agata, she suspected, was deliberately kept away from her, though she doubted the child would talk to her even if granted the opportunity; the resentful looks Agata shot her across the dinner hall spoke volumes and were usually enough to put Shepard off her food. She was able to speak with the Hawke girl - who was not the Hawke girl Varric and Isabela had raved about - and she seemed nice enough; she’d been assigned as her mentor, but though she was pleasant and knowledgeable there was no laughter there, no opportunity for mischief or rule-breaking. Cullen wasn’t even around that much to torment; his posting seemed primarily to be in the main, outside area of the Gallows, whereas Shepard was sentenced to the library for most of the day. Not that he would speak to her, anyway; every time he passed her he gave her a curt nod before quickly looking away, and it wasn’t as though she was expecting him to be her best friend, but he could still be civil to her. He was the one who’d sentenced her to this misery, after all.

The Templars, on their part, didn’t actually seem to _do_ much; she’d never observed any beatings or abuses, though of course that didn’t mean they didn’t happen. The only person who showed any sort of emotion one way or the other was Meredith; in the first few weeks she observed the vast majority of Shepard’s lessons, watching on as Shepard blocked a fireball with one of her barriers, face permanently set in a scowl. Shepard refused to show even an ounce of fear in the woman’s presence, showcasing her talents with pride and holding her head high when Bethany failed yet again in trying to teach her fire magic, but she had to admit, even she was a little unnerved by the Knight-Commander. It was clear that the fear in the Gallows was actually fear of Meredith; even the Templars seemed wary of her, backs straightening and faces hardening when she walked past, and though some might have mistaken it for respect, Shepard had seen enough bad leaders in her time to recognise it for what it truly was. A good leader protected those they had power over, so how could Meredith possibly see herself as successful when so many of the mages were Tranquil?

Cullen had explained Tranquility to her, but it was impossible to comprehend the horror of it without seeing it in action; the blank expressions, the monotone voices, the lack of _life_ , all was enough to make Shepard shiver whenever she walked past one of them. She’d tried speaking to them, to gauge the full extent of what they’d been put through, but the eerie, unflinchingly logical way they spoke of having their emotions ripped from them was too much for her to bear. It was patently obvious that this wasn’t a _last resort_ ; Tranquility was doled out for everything from poor progression in training to sending letters to a lover, and it made Shepard’s blood boil. She’d attempted to collar Cullen about it, once, to confront him about his lie and to see if there was any part of him which felt guilty for what he was complicit in; she’d cornered him in the library one evening, but he had refused point-black to engage in conversation with her, and she’d been ushered away by another Templar before she’d managed to crack him, though not before she’d observed the panic in his eyes.

What was happening all around her was sickening, that much she knew, but what could she do about it? As the First Human Spectre she could’ve closed the place down in a heartbeat, but now she was just another mage, corralled into a cage as the others had been, and it was maddening just how impotent she felt. Maybe if it was just the Gallows she could’ve done _something_ , but the problem ran deeper than that; the Circles were the will of the Chantry, far more powerful then any religion back home had been for centuries, and how could she fight against such systemic oppression from her little jail cell? In another life, in another universe (in _her_ universe, she thought bitterly), maybe she’d have tried regardless; maybe she’d have gone down in a blaze of glory liberating those around her, and maybe things would have changed, if only for a few people. But she couldn’t do that. Not knowing that Liara was still out there somewhere.

She _was_ out there; Shepard forced herself to say this constantly, trying to reinforce the belief that she still lived, though her concern grew by the day. She knew Liara could handle herself - if anything, she could handle herself a little too well since adopting the role of Shadow Broker - but she was still alone in hostile territory, and she was probably just as worried about Shepard as Shepard was about her. Finding her seemed like an impossible task now more than ever, but she’d faced worse odds, and even if got her made Tranquil she’d fight as hard as she could to find her way back to her friend.

That being said, she was in no rush to condemn herself to Tranquility. Though subtle had never been her style, getting out of this unscathed was going to require a delicate touch, and Shepard wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.

It wasn’t until three weeks in, therefore, that Shepard began plan her move; it physically pained her to tow the line for so long, but she needed the Templars to see at least a foundation of compliance before she began to secretly break the rules. Bethany was her first port of call who, though resistant, agreed to pass a message via her sister to this Anders she kept hearing about; a few hushed conversations later, and Shepard found herself exchanging messages with the apostate. Messages turned into letters which turned into instructions, and before Shepard knew it she was out of the Gallows in the middle of the night, through a hidden passage she made sure not to be followed through, and making her way to his clinic in Darktown.

This time, thankfully, she was not cornered by Templars on the way to his home; she found the lamp he’d described with relative ease, and slipped through the darkened doorway into his clinic. It was pitch black for a moment, but as Shepard’s eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom the room was lit up by a dazzling blue aura which was not unlike the hue of her biotics; she squinted, able to pick out the features of a man amongst the brilliant light.

“State your business,” the man said, voice deep and ethereal; he stalked towards her, and though she was sure he was the man she was looking for she threw a barrier in front of herself for protection nonetheless.

“I am the shepherd seeking the healer,” Shepard recited the phrase he’d encoded in his messages, and she saw him relax, his magic fading as he moved to light candles around the room. He came into proper view finally, and he was not quite what she’d expected; tall and thin and a little ill-looking, with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Shepard,” he said, and his voice somehow seemed more human now, a softer tone and higher pitch. “I must admit, for a while I thought you were merely a Templar trap to finally bring me in.”

“Oh, I am. I’ve got twenty of the Circle’s finest waiting outside.” He looked anything but amused by that; his eyes widened, pulling his staff from his back, and she quickly raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry - bad joke; it’s just me. Didn’t mean to make you twitchy.”

“Maker, you’d get along with Hawke,” he muttered, placing his staff on his back once more. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Absolutely,” she nodded. “But you’re not exactly hidden here - how is it they haven’t found you?”

“The Templars know about me, but they’ve chosen to turn a blind eye for the time being; apparently it would be more trouble to bring me in than to leave me here with my work. I do not know how long that will last, however.”

“Lucky,” Shepard muttered. “I saved Rutherford’s life twice and he still wouldn’t let me slip quietly into the night.”

“Ah, so it was the Knight-Captain who caught you?” Anders said. “That’s unfortunate. Or perhaps it’s fortunate that he didn’t slay you where you stood the moment you met.”

“Really?” Shepard asked, surprised by the venom in Anders’ voice. “He didn’t strike me as particularly bloodthirsty.”

“He is Meredith’s second in command,” he said, voice much harsher now. “He carries out her orders with no thought or concern for our kind. He does not believe we should be treated like people; I’ve heard him say as much.”

Shepard’s eyes widened, taken aback by his words. She’d travelled with Cullen for weeks and, though he’d been gruff and stern for most it, he’d always treated her well. Plus, he’d been good to the kid; better than she’d been, at any rate. She had no illusions that they were friends, but she didn’t view him as The Enemy, either. She thought he’d had a similar view, but apparently he didn’t even see her as a person.

“But that is not the main issue,” Anders continued as she processed what he’d said. “You have lived outside a Circle - and for good reason. You must see the injustice of what the Templars do? The corruption of the Chantry in allowing such things to continue in the name of peace?”

“Of course,” Shepard acknowledged. There was no denying it; as a biotic she’d been mistrusted in the past, assumptions made by the ignorant about her abilities and morals - but never once, until now, had she been subjugated because of what she was. “So are you going to help me out?”

He paused, inspecting her critically for a moment. “I will. If you can help me, and all the other mages still living in that horror.”

It took a great amount of self-control for Shepard not to roll her eyes; of _course_ it wasn’t as simple as him just showing her the exit. “How exactly am I supposed to help you?”

“There is an underground movement of mages, living secretly in the city, who work to free those subjected to imprisonment in the Circle. In recent times our numbers have been decimated,” he said, face growing hard, unmistakeable pain in his eyes. “There are so few of us left, and those who are are too scared to act. We need more help - and we need people on the inside of the Circle. To watch for the Templars' movements and listen out for their plans, and to report it back to us on the outside.”

“So you want a spy,” Shepard deduced, and Anders nodded. “What makes you think I’m going to be any use as a spy?”

“You’ve survived this long out of the Circle; it takes talent to go unnoticed for so long. Plus you managed to discover me and seek my help without detection. I imagine this falls within your skill set.” Shepard hesitated in replying and, perhaps sensing her reasons why, he persisted. “You could not escape tonight, regardless of whether you agree to this. They would find you with your phylactery, and you would probably be made Tranquil for trying to flee.”

“So you’re telling me I’m fucked.”

Anders smiled; a weak, tense expression that seemed stiff from lack of use. “I’m telling you that you have an opportunity to become un-fucked. But none of us can afford to be selfish in these times.”

She made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat. Most people would say that those who had already saved the universe once had a right to be a little selfish. “So what’s your forecast on this, time-wise?”

“Three months, give or take.”

“I don’t have that time. I have a friend out there who needs me.”

“Outside the Circle?” Anders asked, brow furrowing. “Is she a mage?” Shepard nodded. “Could she help the Underground too?”

Shepard’s heart quickened at that, sensing an opportunity. Having a person on the outside to help her find Liara would be invaluable, even if it meant trying to explain what an Asari was. At least Anders would be more open-minded about her than the Templars. “Oh, absolutely; covert ops is her speciality. But we’d have to find her first.”

Anders narrowed his eyes. “What you mean is, I’d have to find her for you.”

“It’s the least you could do whilst I’m toiling away in the Gallows for three months.”

He considered her for a long moment, as if deciding if she was worth the hassle, but Shepard suspected he had no option other than to agree to her demands. “I will do what I can to locate her,” he assented, and Shepard smiled. 

“Good. We better get cracking, then.”

\---

And so Shepard listened, and watched, and reported back everything she learned to Anders. It really wasn’t that difficult for her to sneak around unnoticed; though admittedly she favoured a direct approach, she’d had too many years of stealth and recon training not to be able to work her way round the Templars. It was a simple matter of memorising their rosters and patrol routes, and figuring out which doors and walls were particularly badly sound-proofed. 

Meredith and Cullen, for instance, were strict in their routines; they would meet every morning at 0630, after which Cullen would delegate further duties to his lieutenants. Meredith’s day was then largely spent between her office and Orsino’s, with inspections of the common mage areas every three hours and inspection of the Templar’s quarters every six. Cullen’s day, on the other hand, was spent outside in the main Gallows, overseeing mage and Templar alike with unshakable vigilance. They occasionally had ‘snap inspections’, but they were hardly spontaneous, most occurring soon after Meredith had had a particularly volatile argument with Grand Enchanter Orsino, and Shepard soon learnt that by merely being in the right place at these times she largely avoided suspicion in between.

Not that she spent every waking hour spying for the Underground; there was still much for her to learn about Thedas, and she passed much of her time in the library drinking it all in, and though it was partly to aid her survival, it was mostly that insatiable curiosity she’d lived with ever since first stepping foot on a new planet. Whatever this place was, there was no doubt it was _fascinating_ , and though she wasn’t planning on staying she still wanted to learn all she could about it before heading home once more. She read from the ceiling to the floor, picking out all the books whose titles drew her in and absorbing their stories and lessons as though they were her life force. She was intrigued by the Blights, in awe of the Grey Wardens, in love with King Calenhad, and even Andraste’s rise to prominence was captivating. The more she read, the more she was struck by the chirality of this world and hers; from the pages she could see the Milky Way reflected back up at her, the image familiar but not quite the same. Where she read magic she saw biotics, in lyrium she saw eezo, in the Maker she saw God, and through it all she sensed a pattern, a fork that evolution took or a stereoisomer life formed around. The only thing left unpaired was the Fade, a phenomenon which she couldn’t completely comprehend, though she could feel its influence over her dreams as she treaded through old nightmares made more vivid by the realm. 

As she adapted to this routine, she found that the main issue she faced in the Gallows was not in keeping her clandestine activities a secret; rather it was that - as she had continually expressed to Cullen en route to the Circle - she was not, in fact, a mage. She was a biotic, with messed-up nerve endings and top-of-the-range implants; her power came from the manipulation of tangible, if unseen, particles. She could Throw, and Lift, and Charge, and wreak havoc amongst the bookshelves with a well-placed Singularity, but she couldn’t do anything with ice or fire or any of the cool but impractical elements her fellow prisoners used, a fact which quickly became a frustration to everyone concerned. How the Templars were able to cancel those abilities was as baffling as it was annoying, but she was determined to figure it, if only to try and circumvent their powers. Regardless, though she knew it was better to maintain a façade of learning, there was only so long she could listen to Enchanters telling her she was doing magic wrong; she refused to be ashamed of her powers, refused to be criticised for talents which had saved her skin more times than she could count, and soon avoided practical sessions to work on theory instead. Or rather, to be seen to be working on theory; in reality she’d spend her time with one of Genitivi’s texts wedged inside some big and dusty spelltome, quickly closing the book whenever a Templar appeared near her shoulder. The Enchanters didn’t seem to care much about her lack of engagement; only Bethany, sincere to a fault, persisted in trying to teach her. Shepard occasionally went along with her, against her better judgement, just to stop the sad, guilt-inspiring looks she kept giving her.

Shepard thought, for a while, there might be the possibility of friendship there, but it soon became clear that that couldn’t be; there was pity in the mage’s eyes whenever they trained together, and outside of lessons Bethany never once approached her just to talk. Whether it was the fact she knew Shepard to be conspiring with the Underground, or simply that she feared her to be a lost cause, she couldn’t tell; either way she didn’t blame her, though it left an emptiness which no amount of reading or spying could fill. Instead she’d sing to herself, to remind herself who she was, and to forget for a moment that she was utterly alone.

It was only for three months, she kept reminding herself. But three months was a long time to spend in solitary confinement.


	13. Chapter 13

Meredith could tell from the instant she met the apostate Shepard that the woman would be trouble.

Actually, she knew even before that; she’d known from the very first letter her Knight-Captain had sent, apologising for his absence - and explaining the dead Templar recruits - but that there was an apostate he just _had_ to bring in. It was clear from the tone of that first letter that he felt he owed the apostate a debt for her actions on the Wounded Coast, else he would have hunted her to the death; more worryingly, it was clear from the subsequent updates she received that he even _respected_ the mage. She’d sensed that Cullen’s conviction in their cause had been wavering for some time - she’d already taken steps to redistribute less savoury tasks in which she suspected he would no longer be complicit - but she also knew that this could be the trigger for outright dissent; respecting her was a gateway to understanding her, and she couldn’t afford for her Knight-Captain to start showing the mages empathy.

She supposed she ought to be grateful, that the mage had saved her Knight-Captain’s life. But if her arrival merely signalled the beginning of the end, perhaps it would have been better if he had died.

The fact that Shepard was an objectively attractive woman was a further complicating factor; the fact that she knew this was even worse. Maker, she’d been brazen enough to _flirt_ with Cullen when they’d captured her in Darktown, and the way he’d blushed in response spoke volumes. She’d heard the rumours, of Cullen’s infatuation with a mage back in Kinloch Hold, which had predictably ended disastrously; though she’d never once seen him falter in Kirkwall, she knew the potential was there. The last thing she needed was for him to regress and forget why mages could not be trusted, could not be liked, could never be loved. Particularly mages who were as impertinent as Shepard.

She needed further information on the woman, that much was obvious; what Cullen reported of her background ranged from improbable to downright delusional, though if even some of it were true they were in trouble. Meredith had watched her around the Circle, but that showed little about her, other than she could read; save for one scuffle with a fellow Apprentice she kept her magic under wraps, apparently unwilling to show how much or how little control she had over her abilities. But Meredith had been doing her job long enough to have developed a sixth sense when it came to these matters. Outwardly she might not have been showing rebellion or resistance, but there was clearly something simmering just beneath the surface; an arrogance bordering on entitlement and a contempt for their practice. And so a month after she had arrived, Meredith requested the apostate’s presence in her office.

Shepard arrived on time, face unreadable as she entered the room; she strode in purposefully, coming to stand in front of the desk with her hands clasped behind her back, as though she were a soldier awaiting inspection.

“Shepard,” Meredith said.

“Knight-Commander,” she returned.

“Would you take a seat?” Meredith asked, indicating to one of the two chairs in her room, but Shepard shook her head, never once breaking eye contact.

“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d rather stand.”

Meredith frowned at that, eyeing Shepard warily; she was being incredibly formal, respectful even, which did not correlate with the Apprentice she’d observed over the past month. Her face was still blank, head held high and chin jutted forward, though occasionally her eyes flicked around the room, as though calculating her best route of escape. “There is no need to be nervous, Shepard,” Meredith told her sharply. “I merely wish to talk to you.”

“I’m not nervous, ma’am,” she said, a hint of a smile on her lips, but said no more than that. Obviously Meredith was going to have to dig if she wanted anything from her.

“You address me as one of my recruits would,” Meredith noted, and Shepard nodded but said nothing. “According to my Knight-Captain, you claim to be a Commander yourself.”

“I _am_ a Commander,” she said, pursing her lips a little to suppress that smirk, and was she actually finding this _funny_?

“How, exactly, are _you_ a Commander?” Meredith shot.

“Prior to arriving here I had command of a ship. The Normandy,” Shepard said, the smile flickering and her face becoming serious again.

“So you’re a pirate,” Meredith surmised, but Shepard shook her head viciously.

“No, ma’am. I earned my rank, I assume in a similar way to what you did.”

Meredith bristled at that; the implication that the two were in any way alike was repugnant to her. “I somehow doubt that,” she spat, and Shepard smiled again.

“I don’t mean to offend you, ma’am. I merely meant that we are - well, were, in my case - both women of power in a heavily male military structure; you don’t get there by being a wallflower.”

That, she supposed, was true, but she wasn’t going to give Shepard the satisfaction of agreeing with her. “A mage is not given command of a military vessel, not in any country I’ve ever heard of.”

“Exactly,” Shepard said simply, and Meredith grit her teeth.

“Ah, yes. ‘Across the sea’,” she said, with as much scorn as she could muster.

“I don’t see how this is so hard for people to believe,” Shepard said, losing some of her formality as her voice became light and animated. “There is a sea. Logic dictates there is more land past it. I’m not telling you I arrived here on a spaceship from a parallel universe. But if you prefer to think that nowhere else has thought of a better way of managing people with my talents, feel free. Ma’am,” she added, a pitiful attempt to circle back round to respect.

“Some mages think Tevinter has a better grasp of magic, and they have blood mages and abominations openly walking the streets.”

“You think I’m from Tevinter?” Shepard asked, eyebrow quirking in amusement.

“I think you are a Hedge mage with a talent for stories,” Meredith retorted, waving a dismissive hand at her. “Where you are from is largely irrelevant.”

“I get it,” Shepard said, holding her hands up in surrender. “It’s far easier to dismiss things that don’t fit into your world view. You may not believe what I’ve said, but I’m sure Rutherford has briefed you on what I’m capable of doing. Eight Tal-Vashoth, and all that.”

“What’s your point?” Meredith snapped, bristling over her casual use of Cullen’s surname.

“That I’m much better to have as an ally than as an enemy.”

“Is that a _threat_?” Meredith hissed, hand twitching for her sword.

“Not at all, ma’am’,” Shepard said, calm and collected even in the face of Meredith’s rage. “I’m just making sure we both know where we stand with one another.”

“Then let me be very clear on where you stand,” Meredith said, stepping round the desk to square up to Shepard; Meredith was a good half a foot taller than her, but Shepard showed no indication of being intimidated by that fact, and it infuriated her. “Whatever you were before, you are a Circle mage now, and nothing more than that. I will not allow your magic to pose a threat to this city, and if you cannot obey the Circle’s rules I will not hesitate in crushing you. Is that understood, _Commander_?”

“Of course, Knight-Commander,” she replied evenly, and Meredith’s hand flexed around her sword, sorely tempted to raise it before this woman was allowed the opportunity for destruction. They stared each other down for a long moment, neither wishing to break eye contact first, and the silence was only broken by the opening of the office door. They both jumped slightly at the noise, and Meredith turned to see Cullen entering the room with the week’s roster, eyes concerned as they darted between the two women.

“Knight-Captain. Good,” Meredith said, sweeping towards her junior and taking the papers from his arms. “You may leave, Apprentice.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Shepard replied, taking her leave but apparently unable to resist a final knife twist. “Hi, Rutherford,” she said, smiling warmly at Cullen. “May I just say, your armour is _gleaming_ this morning.”

“I… thank you?” Cullen said with some confusion, glancing down at his armour with a furrowed brow as Shepard left the room, and Meredith tutted impatiently.

“She’s mocking you, Cullen.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, that classic tell of his she’d noticed within the first few weeks of his transfer to the Gallows. “Is there a problem, Knight-Commander?”

She hesitated before replying, deciding that this was not something Cullen ought to be involved in. Because she knew, really, that there was only one way of ensuring Shepard’s obedience, and she was also quite sure that Cullen wouldn’t approve. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with. She’s clearly dangerous, but I will continue to watch her for now. Time will tell what kind of mage she will turn out to be. Now,” she said, drawing the conversation away to distract his attention, “let us get to work.”

\---

It did not take long for Cullen to slip back into his role as the Knight-Captain. His little trip north was soon a distant memory, though a fond one; in moments of silence, when patrolling the study hall or preparing to turn in for the evening, his mind would wander back to Shepard’s ‘negotiation’ of horses or her femme fatale escape attempt, and a smile would quite involuntarily tug at the corners of his lips. He’d quickly smother it, reminding himself that her unpredictability was dangerous rather than funny, but still he couldn’t help but replay their conversations to provide some entertainment to his otherwise empty days.

Shepard, for her part, was settling in at the Circle better than expected. She seemed to be keeping her head down, though perhaps a little too much; she declined most practical training, instead settling in the library with some ancient tome most days, and there was only so long she could keep doing that before attracting suspicion. At least she wasn’t outright rude to the other Templars, but there was still a niggle in the back of his mind which Cullen couldn’t quite shake. He saw the way Meredith looked at her, distrustful and a little bit afraid, and knew it would not take much for her to decide Tranquility would be a safer option than Harrowing in Shepard’s case. And if that was Meredith’s order… well, he didn’t know what he’d do. He could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

For his own sake as much as hers, avoiding Shepard was the best course of action; he couldn’t afford to be seen talking casually with an apostate, let alone be seen _enjoying_ talking with her. He had only narrowly escaped a scene with her in the library, where he was sure she was going to confront him about conditions in the Circle, but he suspected it was only a matter of time before she accosted him once more. That time came one night, when a noise woke Cullen in the early hours of the morning, and it took him a while to realise that it wasn’t his dreams.

It was a strange noise, occurring once every few minutes; a dull _thud, thud_ followed by silence. After around ten minutes of listening in, and deciding it wasn’t all in his mind, Cullen chose to investigate, arming himself with his chestplate, boots and sword before entering the hallway. He wandered the corridors for a good five minutes, none the wiser as to the cause of the sound; he was almost about to go back to bed at put it down to a nightmare, when he heard a rustling above him. He looked up quickly, and saw the stairwell illuminated by a distinctly familiar blue light; he hesitated, frozen by the view until a voice sounded from above him.

“Move outta the fucking way!”

He dived to the side, but a second too late; within the next moment he felt himself crushed by something landing on top of him, and he crumpled to the floor, winded. He pushed valiantly against the dead weight, and after a considerable amount of effort it moved; he jumped to his feet, drawing his sword as he faced his assailant from above. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he found himself face-to-face with a small, red-headed women, who held her hands up in surrender.

“Shepard!” he exclaimed, breathing hard as he realised who it was that had fallen on him. “What are you doing?!”

“What are _you_ doing?” she returned. “It’s two o’clock in the morning!”

“I heard a noise and came to investigate! You shouldn’t be out of bed!”

“ _Pfft_ ,” she returned, pushing her hair out of her face. “It’s too busy during the day; when else am I supposed to train?”

“You’re practising your magic?” he asked, fingers flexing around his sword. “Shepard; you’re an Apprentice. You cannot train without surveillance.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she glared at him. “Oh, give me a break. You know I’m not going to make a deal with any demon, or set the Gallows on fire. Much as I would like to.”

“You need to get back to your quarters,” Cullen said, unpersuaded by her logic. “Come on,” he said, moving to grab her elbow, but she quickly pulled back, throwing a shield between the two of them.

“Don’t touch me, Rutherford,” she said severely. “I will not be manhandled.” He groaned, quickly summoning his reserves to cancel her shield, and she growled at him. “Don’t cancel me, you dick!”

“Shepard, you need to get back to your dorm,” he told her bluntly. “If another Templar had come across you—”

“They’d what, make me Tranquil?” she shot back at him, eyes narrowed. “But you’re above all that. The fine, upstanding Knight-Captain.”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I will not be drawn into this argument with you.”

“Because you know I’m right. I don’t know what’s worse; believing in Tranquility or being complicit when you know it’s wrong.”

“That is enough!” he snapped, annoyed with himself more than her; had he actually been wistful about his conversations with her? Clearly he’d forgotten how self-righteous she was. “Get back to your dorm. I will not ask again.”

“No, don’t— let’s not go yet,” Shepard persisted, quietening down as quickly as she had flared up; she stepped back out of his reach, looking up at him with wide, imploring eyes. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing first?”

He considered her for a moment; it seemed odd, that with all the time she had to hone her abilities, she chose the dead of night. “Enlighten me.”

“I’m trying to _float_ ,” she said, a mischievous grin crossing her face. “I have this friend - Samara - she can jump off a ledge and float down to the ground like a fucking feather. Don’t tell me that that’s not a cool ability.”

Admittedly, that _was_ cool; he knew of no mages who could manipulate the fabric of the universe to slow down or speed up their movement. But his attention was instead distracted by the mention of her _friend_. “Who is this friend of yours?” he asked, and she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get excited; she’s far beyond your reach,” she told him, but then seemed to soften slightly, eyes looking far behind him. “You’d like her, actually. She’s an Asari Justicar; not dissimilar to you Templars.”

“She’s a mage,” Cullen said bluntly, and Shepard smiled.

“Not all mages disagree with your principles, Knight-Captain,” she told him. “She pledged her life to righting wrongs. Killed her own daughter for using her powers for ill.”

“No mage would turn on her child like that,” he maintained, but Shepard merely stared at him; a deep, searching look that made him feel as though his very soul was on show.

“Samara did,” she said. “Actually, she asked me to seduce her daughter to draw her into this honey-trap, _then_ she killed her.”

Cullen, much to his chagrin, blushed at that; the thought of Shepard with another woman was oddly intriguing, and a thought he quickly tried to suppress. He obviously didn’t hide it soon enough, however; she grinned at him, taking a step closer forward to him.

“Are you distracted, Rutherford?” she asked, batting her eyelashes in an altogether frustrating fashion. “At the thought of me becoming intimate with a woman?”

“Shepard, you better watch yourself,” he said, hand closing round the pommel of his sword. “If you acted like this around another Templar—”

“But I’m acting like this around you; I’m not an idiot,” she told him. “But I’d just like to have a reasonable conversation with someone. All the mages are afraid to talk to me,” she said, looking troubled for the first time that evening. “You at least listen to my shit stories.”

“I’m a Templar, Shepard,” he maintained, ignoring the pang he felt in his chest as he said it. “I cannot be your friend.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my friend,” she said firmly. “I just asked you to listen.”

He considered her a moment, and for perhaps the first time he empathised with her. He’d heard what the other mages whispered about her, the reasons they gave her a wide berth; her magic was different, and scary, and they were sure she’d gained it by illicit means. She truly had no-one within the Circle, save perhaps Agata - but the child had quickly been ushered away from her to undertake her own learning, and discouraged from spending time with Shepard. The last proper conversation she would have had was with him - and, likewise, the last time he’d spoken about anything other than work was with her.

She was probably just as lonely as he was.

“So why, exactly, did your friend want her daughter dead?” he asked her, because to be honest, despite how ridiculous her stories were, he found himself eager to hear them. She grinned, taking a seat on the stone steps of the tower and gesturing for him to sit beside her. He didn’t, but he moved to lean against the wall next to her, a posture somewhere in between the wide canyon of formality and familiarity. 

“Morinth was an Ardat-Yakshi,” Shepard began. “That means ‘Demon of the Night Winds’, in the old Asari language. Asari are a race, by the way,” she added as a side-point. “All women - well, they’re monogendered but they look like women - and blue with kind of tentacle hair.”

“That’s preposterous,” Cullen scoffed. “There is no such race.”

Shepard shrugged. “Where I’m from there aren’t any elves. That didn’t mean elves didn’t exist, it just meant that I’d never seen one before.”

He couldn’t fault her logic, but he still doubted her claims. “If they’re all women, how do they reproduce?”

Her eyes widened in delight and, realising his mistake, he instantly blushed. “You dog, Rutherford. Would you like me to draw you a diagram?”

“Wha—I—no!” he spluttered. “I-I just meant, the race couldn’t continue if they were all female. Could they?”

“Yes, actually. But they reproduce by merging nervous systems together, or something like that. I don’t think they have to have sex, but it probably helps.”

He blushed further, quickly glancing around him even though he already knew they were alone. Maker, if someone could hear the conversation he was currently having - discussing _sex_ with an Apprentice who managed to be so matter-of-fact about it all - he’d be thrown out of the Order in a heartbeat. “Let’s just move on,” he said quickly, and Shepard snickered.

“As you wish, but it only gets more sordid,” she said, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially to him. “See, Ardat-Yakshi have some sort of fucked-up nervous system, so when they try to mate they end up completely eviscerating their partner’s brain. Apparently the sex is amazing, but you don’t really survive long enough to appreciate it. Well, the Ardat-Yakshi survives, and becomes stronger - and Morinth got a taste for it.”

Cullen rolled his eyes as her story only grew more and more absurd. “Shepard, you are _such_ a liar.”

“No I’m not!” she retorted, indignant.

“Yes you are!” he said, though he couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re just trying to make me feel uncomfortable by telling me a completely obscene story.”

“If I wanted to make you feel uncomfortable, I’d tell you about the time _I_ had sex with an Asari.”

If Cullen thought he was red before he felt himself go thoroughly beetroot at that; she laughed as he spluttered, unable to hold eye contact with her anymore. 

“Andraste preserve me, you really are—”

“Who’s there?” a voice sounded on the stairs above them; Cullen jumped, heart beating erratically as he suddenly remembered where he was, and that it would _not_ be looked upon favourably if he was found consorting with an unharrowed mage in the dead of night. He exchanged a brief look with Shepard, and even she looked a little worried; without thinking he grabbed hold of her hand, pulling her up off the steps, and fled with her back in the direction he’d come.

“What are you—”

“Shh!” he implored her, though there was little point; she was remarkably light on her feet, but Cullen clattered through the corridors in his heavy boots, and he knew whichever Templar had stumbled upon them in their patrol would know exactly which way they were going. There was only one thing for it; he darted through the corridors towards his quarters, pulling her inside and slamming the door shut behind them.

“Oh, because this is better,” Shepard hissed, ignoring him as he waved her to be quiet, his ear pressed up against the door. “Better not be seen talking in a corridor, oh no; let them find us in your _bedroom_.”

“Shepard, for the love of the Maker, for once in your life can you _stop talking_?”

She acquiesced, though he could almost feel her eyes boring daggers into his back; he ignored her however, listening intently for sounds outside his room. He could hear footsteps, occasionally pausing to push open a door and inspect a room, growing ever closer to his quarters, and he suspected whichever Templar it was would most likely stop by his room too to see if their Knight-Captain had heard anything. He needed to hide Shepard, and quickly. He spun around to face her, mind racing to come up with some sort of plan, and found she was already in the midst of executing a _terrible_ one; she was sat straddling his window ledge, peering down into the pitch-black Gallows courtyard.

“What are you doing?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer to that.

“Clearing out,” she said simply, and his eyes widened.

“It’s a fifty foot drop!”

“Good job I’ve been practising my floating, eh?” She winked at him, swinging her other leg over the windowsill. “See you around, Rutherford.”

Before he could protest further she pushed herself off the ledge in a flash of blue; she disappeared out of sight, her glow vanishing shortly after, and a few moments after that he heard a dull _thud_ and a muffled groan which made his stomach drop. He moved towards the window, desperately hoping she was alright, because it was going to be _very_ hard to explain a dead mage directly underneath his window tomorrow if not, but before he could peer out into the darkness there was a knock on his door. He froze for a moment, then quickly remembered himself; he pulled off his chestplate and put it and his sword gently down on his dresser, then stepped out of his boots as quietly as he could, before opening his door and trying his best to appear bleary-eyed.

“Knight-Captain.” It was Paxley, recently promoted to Knight-Lieutenant, who seemed to be far better at obeying Meredith’s orders than Cullen was as of late. 

“Is there a reason you’re disturbing my sleep, Knight-Lieutenant?”

“I—sorry, sir,” he stumbled, taken aback but recovering quickly. “I’ve been on patrol, and I heard voices out by the tower stairwell - whoever they were ran this way when I called out to them. Have you heard anything?”

“I’ve been asleep, Paxley,” he said shortly. “I haven’t heard anything besides your knocking.”

“Sorry, sir,” he repeated sheepishly. “I’ll - er - I’ll keep searching.”

“I will come with you,” Cullen told him. “If there are mages meeting in secret, it will be better to have two of us there. Hold here a moment.” He closed the door on Paxley, deliberately taking his time to put on his armour, at the same time glancing out of his window down to the courtyard, though he couldn’t see any sign of Shepard. Once he decided there was no use in stalling further - if Shepard gotten back to her dorm by now, she wasn’t going to - he opened the door again, meeting Paxley’s slightly bemused expression with a curt nod. “Let us go. We should search the library first.”


	14. Chapter 14

After an hour of searching and not running into any mages - Shepard or otherwise - along the way, Cullen and Paxley retired to their respective quarters, though sleep eluded Cullen for most of the night. He was too tense, too on edge, mind buzzing as he ran over the evening’s events and came to the realisation that _he’d broken the rules_. He’d colluded with a mage, hidden her from another Templar ( _in his bedroom_ , of all places) and then lied about it, and for the life of him he couldn’t quite figure out why. He could have simply told Paxley that he’d caught Shepard out of bed too - that was what had happened, after all - or he could’ve just ran and left Shepard to fend for herself. Or, if he’d been doing his job properly, he could have - _should_ have - ignored her tall tales and escorted her back to her quarters instantly. But he’d chosen instead to ally himself with her, to lie for her, to protect her along with him, and even now he was worried that she might be injured. It might have been the right thing to do, but it certainly wasn’t how things were done in the Gallows - it wasn’t how _he’d_ done things, until very recently.

He was glad when sunlight began to seep through his curtains and he could give up on his pitiful attempt at sleep; he quickly rose, dressing in his armour and commencing his duties with enough vigour to push the previous night from his mind. He managed to do so admirably, until mid-morning, when Paxley came to stand next to him in the Gallows, looking just as sleep-deprived and disgruntled as Cullen felt.

“I think I’ve found the source of last night’s noise, Knight-Captain,” Paxley muttered.

“Oh?” Cullen replied, trying to sound nonchalant, and Paxley nodded in Shepard’s direction - the direction in which Cullen had emphatically been trying _not_ to look all morning. She was chatting genially with one of the Tranquil by their stalls - she was one of the few mages that paid them any sort of attention - and though she looked as carefree as ever she was moving with a distinct limp which she was trying her best to conceal. He supposed he ought to be glad that she hadn’t been more badly injured, but really he was just annoyed that she wasn’t as proficient at her magic as she thought.

“I’d better report this to the Knight-Commander,” Paxley said, and Cullen jolted; if Meredith knew Shepard had been sneaking around the Gallows at night it would be more than enough ammunition to call for her Tranquility.

“No need; I shall talk to Meredith about Shepard,” Cullen said, ignoring the curious look that Paxley was giving him. “I’ll talk to Shepard, too.”

“Why?” Paxley asked.

“Because it is apparent that she needs reminding of the Circle’s rules.”

“Well, make sure you ask her about who she was meeting,” Paxley grumbled. “Although I’m surprised she was meeting with anyone - doesn’t seem like any of the other mages like her.” Paxley looked at him expectantly, and Cullen grit his teeth as he realised the Knight-Lieutenant was anticipating a public rebuke; with a nod - more to himself than to his fellow Templar - Cullen steeled himself, marching over to Shepard with his fist clenched around the pommel of his sword.

“Apprentice,” Cullen said curtly as he approached Shepard; she smiled broadly at him, and why did she have to smile like that? 

“Hey, Rutherford. Maddox, do you know the Knight-Captain very well?”

“Not especially,” Maddox, the Tranquil beside her, replied in that eerily monotone voice they all had. “Is there something you wish of us, Knight-Captain?”

“I just need to talk to Shepard,” he said, and Maddox nodded, meekly leaving them to their conversation.

“Apparently he got made Tranquil for sending love letters to a girl,” Shepard told him, and Cullen bristled at the disapproval in her voice.

“I am aware. Did you know he used a Templar to smuggle the letters out of the Gallows?”

Shepard let out an dramatic gasp, eyes widening and brows shooting up her forehead in a far too exaggerated expression. “A mage and a Templar? Working together? Surely you’re pulling my leg.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t pull your leg at the moment. Not with that limp,” he said, frowning at her, before lowering his voice. “Apparently that floating ability of yours needs more work.”

“I know; I’m going to work on it again tonight.”

“No, you are _not_ ,” he said firmly. “Last night was too close, and other Templars already suspect you of conspiring against the Order. If I find you out of bed after hours again, I will not be so lenient.”

“Then I’ll make sure you don’t find me.”

“Shepard—”

“Oh, relax!” she rolled her eyes, and her easy disregard of him frustrated him endlessly. “I promise I’ll be a good little mage from now on. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I’d ideally like to hear silence, but I know that’s never going to happen with you around.”

Shepard laughed at that, and he saw a few people - mages and Templars alike - look up at the noise; he clenched his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest and taking an emphatic step back from her. Maker, she was going to be the death of him. “You’re funny when you get all sarcastic. You make the most adorable frowny face.”

“Are you actively trying to be made Tranquil? Because I really can’t explain your behaviour otherwise.”

“Maybe I just want to see you try it,” she replied, and though she was still smiling it was impossible to miss the threat in her words.

“No late-night jaunts,” he said firmly. “No floating. No ridiculous stories about blue women. You’re a Circle mage now; act like it.”

She merely rolled her eyes again before walking away from him, and he supposed that was marginally better than her remaining there to argue with him, but he highly doubted she was going to pay his warning any heed. He groaned, rubbing his forehead as he considered the sheer amount of grief she was causing him. He knew one thing: he was going to have to change the patrol roster.

\---

Though annoying Cullen remained the only fun thing to do in the Circle, Shepard knew better than to push it; helping her that night had merely been an extension of saving his own skin, and if he really knew what she got up to most nights she was sure he’d have no qualms about reporting her to Meredith. She was careful to avoid him the following night, when he adjusted the patrols in an effort to catch her out of bed again, despite the overwhelming temptation to send him flying off his feet with a Singularity whilst he marched up and down the hallways.

There was nothing to be gained from drawing his ire any further - besides, his ability to suppress her biotics was quickly growing infuriating. It had been difficult for her to find out much about Templar abilities at first; there were few books in the library about Templars, she suspected for fear that mages would learn how to counter their tactics. She instead had to figure it out the hard way: by breaking into Meredith’s office and stealing one of her books. From what she read, their powers apparently worked by cutting off a mage’s access to the Fade, which at first only confused Shepard further; she was accessing her biotics no differently here than back home, and she was sure it had nothing to do with the Fade. But their reinforcement of reality also made the world more solid, its essence stubborn and resistant to change; the world was forced to stay in place, atoms in their correct spin and spacetime at its correct mass, and the outcome of that, it seemed, was that she was unable to generate mass effect fields. That was her interpretation, of course; atoms and spacetime were concepts not realised here yet, but it was that step of her biotics which seemed to suffer at the Templars’ hands. She could still feel the hum of her implants and the surge of dark energy down her spine, but converting that to a physical force was like trying to Throw through cement; the fabric of the universe just felt too _stuck_ to manipulate, and it made her feel impotent.

She thought that by figuring out their process she might discover a workaround, but if she couldn’t create mass effect fields then the worst she could do was give them a static shock. Which was certainly not enough, as she was surer by the day that Meredith did not plan on her reaching a Harrowing. Mages more placid than she were made Tranquil as a weekly occurrence; more worryingly some just _disappeared_ , vanishing without a trace overnight. She first assumed they were being helped to freedom by the Underground, which annoyed her enough to confront Anders about it; however he insisted that whilst some of them were escapes he’d helped orchestrate, many of them he couldn’t account for. That worried her. If the First Human Spectre couldn’t get out of the Gallows by herself, she doubted a mage raised in the system had the guile to do so; besides, she assumed the Templars would be keen to track down any escapees, but those who disappeared were simply never mentioned again. Anders had the same misgivings; he’d grown furious at the news, sparking blue with the spirit who shared his body. Justice was a discovery she’d made soon after becoming acquainted with Anders; he’d grown angry at a flippant comment she’d made about demons, voice turning deep and inhuman as he argued her down, and since then she’d become far more wary of upsetting him. In an attempt to placate the both of them, she agreed to investigate from within the Circle, though she knew that was easier said than done; even if someone had seen something that might prove useful, Shepard was the last person they’d tell about it. Really, she needed a Templar to properly investigate the matter, and unfortunately she only had one to ask.

It was best not to ask for Cullen’s help outright during the day; he got twitchy whenever she so much as smiled at him, and he was sure to shut her down if she approached him publicly. She instead waited for a night when she knew he’d be on patrol; she sat on a ledge in the courtyard, back against the wall to conceal herself in the shadows until just the right time. He arrived on cue through a door underneath her - he was nothing if not punctual - and his head snapped up to face her as she cleared her throat.

“Nice of you to join me.”

He groaned, and even in the darkness she could see him wincing. “For the love of— Shepard, get back to your dorm.”

“In a bit,” she said, pushing off the ledge and jumping down next to him. “I need to speak to you first.”

“What could you possibly need to speak with me about?” he hissed, eyes roving the courtyard to make sure they were alone, as if she hadn’t taken that precaution herself.

“Disappearing mages.” She tilted her head towards a nearby alcove - it provided them a little more cover if anyone else happened to wander into the courtyard - and Cullen followed her, though it looked as though he did so against his better judgement. “Six have gone missing in as many weeks,” she continued as she sat down on a stone bench; she indicated for Cullen to sit next to her, though he remained standing. “That can’t have escaped your notice.”

“No, it has not,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve stationed more men on known exits from the Gallows, but— wait, why does this concern you?” he asked, brow furrowed. “I thought you would love the idea of mages escaping.”

“I do, but I don’t think they’re escaping. Have you tried using their phylacteries?”

He scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “What a _novel_ idea. As the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall I never once considered using a mage’s phylactery to find them; however did I do my job without you?”

“You’re very glib for a Templar who keeps losing his charges.”

Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Their phylacteries have all gone missing from the storeroom,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

“Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious? Your storeroom’s locked down tighter than a batarian prison - er, so I’ve been told.”

He narrowed his eyes, but apparently decided against questioning her familiarity with the storeroom’s security. “Unfortunately there are too many Templars here who would happily assist mages to freedom.”

She didn’t know which ones they could possibly be; the other Templars seemed to merge into one, all stern and disapproving and silent as they watched over the Gallows. She’d obviously picked the wrong one to be - well, not _friends_ \- with. “What if you’re wrong?” she persisted. “What if these mages _think_ someone is helping them, but actually they’re being lured into a trap?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Shepard, contrary to popular opinion, Templars are not constantly plotting the downfall of mages. You’ll find there are some Templars who just want mages to _leave them alone_.”

“I’ll leave you alone if you promise to look into this further.”

“I already am.”

“Well you don’t seem to be doing much, because just yesterday—”

“I understand your concerns,” he said, raising a hand to silence her, “but I know my men. I will continue to investigate, regardless - but there is no need for you to become further involved. I trust that is sufficient?”

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. “Let me know if you find out anything.”

“No,” he shook his head emphatically. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me; what if I go missing next?”

“Then maybe I’ll get a moment’s peace.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and his sternness instantly disappeared, his shoulders dropping as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Forgive me, that was— you know I didn’t mean that,” he said, voice softer than it had been all night. “But you do need to get back to your dorm.”

“I know,” she said, to both of his points, though she made no attempt to move; she was rather enjoying being sat outside for once, with a cool breeze brushing across her skin and company she didn’t entirely despise. She sighed contentedly, leaning forward on her seat so she could better peer up at the night’s sky. “The stars are pretty tonight.”

“Stop stalling, Shepard,” he said gruffly, though she caught the corner of his mouth twitch up for a fraction of a second.

“I’m being sincere!” she protested, though it didn’t look like he believed her. “Seriously, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“How much do you know about the stars?” He gave her a curious look, as though he was sure she had some ulterior motive to her questioning, and she hurried to clarify. “I mean, I’ve read books since arriving here, but it’s hard to properly study them when you’re cooped up all day and night.” It was true; she’d been eager to learn the patterns in the sky at first - they were just so different to the constellations she knew, and she found that fascinating. But she couldn’t quite translate the written words into the images they described, unable to visualise the patterns she was told were there. She kept trying to see her own stars at first, only to be disappointed when they were nowhere to be found.

Cullen shrugged, glancing up at the sky for a brief moment. “I know the basics, but I can’t say I’m an expert. Astronomy has never really interested me.”

“Ah,” she said, feeling a little disheartened. “That’s a shame.”

“I thought you’d already know about the constellations, what with having a ship. I thought sailors used the stars to navigate?”

She couldn’t tell whether he was trying to catch her in a lie or if it was a genuine enquiry; either way, she slipped easily into an explanation which wasn’t entirely dishonest. “I had other people to navigate. I told my crew where to go, not how to get there.”

They were silent for a moment as she looked wistfully up at the structures which were both so familiar and so foreign, and she was sure he was going to dismiss her, to tell her to get back to her quarters once more. To her great surprise he actually sat down beside her, and though he left a good six inches between them it was still the closest she’d been to anyone in months. “You like the stars, then?”

Shepard nodded, smiling sadly to herself for a moment because yes, she liked the stars, more than she could ever hope to express. There were many things she missed about her home - the extranet, FTL, proper plumbing - but barring the company of her friends, being amongst starlight was the one thing she truly yearned for. “Out of all the wonders this universe contains, I think the stars are the most beautiful.” Cullen didn’t reply to that; she turned to look at him to see that he was staring hard at the sky, as if willing it to reveal to him what she saw there. “You don’t agree,” she surmised.

“They’re just balls of light. I think there’s much more tangible beauty in the world.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged again. “We have some beautiful artwork in the Chantry, and it looks lovely when the wreaths are brought out on Summerday. And loath though I am to praise Orlesian architecture, the White Spire in Val Royeaux is exquisite. All of that you can experience properly, rather than observing from afar.”

“Yeah, but none of it’s permanent. Paintings fade, flowers wilt, buildings fall. When everything else is going to shit at least you can look up at the sky and be assured that one thing will always stay the same.”

They sank into silence again as Shepard considered the fact that that wasn’t entirely true; if you crashed an asteroid into a mass relay even a star system could be lost. Of course, it took a special kind of fuck-up to cause that much destruction. “I can see how that could be comforting,” Cullen agreed eventually in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “I wish someone had said that to me years ago.” He looked sad for a moment, a sliver of vulnerability breaking through his usual rigid visage and making him look younger than he’d ever seemed before, but then he shook his head and the Knight-Captain was back, fixing her with a steely glare. “You really ought to get to bed.”

“Tell me about one constellation, and then I’ll go.”

He shook his head again, but he was smiling now. “Very well. Let’s see… well, over there you can see Judex, the Sword of Mercy,” he said, indicating to a collection of stars that really didn’t look like anything to Shepard. “That’s the pommel at the top, and there’s the hilt,” he said, dragging his finger between the dots, “and those lead down to the point.” She saw it now, though she had to squint to make out the downturned sword, much like the symbol emblazoned on his armour. 

“Ugh, of course you’d point out the Templar one,” she grumbled.

“Fine - then how about Equinor,” he offered, tracing another constellation that looked even less distinct. “That’s either a horse or a griffon, depending on who you ask. See the head?”

“Not in the slightest,” she said, and he chuckled. “Oh well. They can be mysteries to me; I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” It was just one more thing in this world that she couldn’t quite get a grasp of, after all; she was getting used to the feeling of mediocrity.

“Now, by my count that’s two constellations,” he said, and with an emphatic sigh she stood from her seat.

“Very well; I know when I’m not wanted. Enjoy your patrol, Rutherford,” she said, leaving him in the alcove as she stepped out into the courtyard, quickly plotting her best route back by which corridors still had candles illuminating the windows. 

“Good-night, Shepard,” she heard him whisper, and she allowed herself a small smile as she disappeared into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter helps to explain how Templars can interrupt Shepard's biotics, as I know some people were curious about this. I started reading about spacetime to try and add to the explanation but the Wikipedia article made my head hurt. Then I asked my brother, a physics grad, to explain it to me, and he said he didn't understand it either. So, something something space magic?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all your comments and feedback, it's lovely to hear that other people are enjoying my story! Also I'm on tumblr - come say hi at agentkatie.tumblr.com as I reblog stupid memes and fanart of topless Cullen.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence/death

Cullen, for his part, did his best to investigate the missing mages over the following week, but his efforts quickly proved futile. He had no leads, beyond whatever gut feeling Shepard apparently had; the mages in question had left behind no evidence, no notes, no hint at all as to whether this was escape or something more sinister. He figured his best hope was the storeroom, and so he adjusted the patrols once more, stationing himself outside in the hopes of catching any conspirators; however not once did he encounter anyone remotely suspicious by the door. Worse still, another mage managed to go missing right underneath his nose, phylactery and all. Templars were clearly involved - though he still believed their reasons were misguided altruism - but what could he do? He had other duties, and other concerns. 

Top of the list of concerns was the unshakable sense that people were talking about him. He was used to quickly-hushed conversations when walking by a group of mages, but now it was happening amongst the Templars, most notably the younger recruits; there was a distinct giddiness to it, lips pressed together to stifle laughter, conversation bubbling up once more when he wasn’t quite out of earshot. What they could be talking about he didn’t have the faintest idea, but it worried him; he got the distinct impression he was the subject of some ridiculous barracks gossip, and he doubted the Knight-Commander would like to hear it.

He remained preoccupied by this even after his rostered hours finished, his mind flitting back to the snippets of conversation he’d heard one evening as he traipsed back to his quarters after his shift. ‘The Knight-Captain wouldn’t’; that had been the start of one sentence he’d interrupted, but the Knight-Captain wouldn’t _what_? What had changed that had caused people to discuss him with such vigour? He sighed, wearily removing his gauntlets and placing them on his dresser, rubbing his temples with one hand in a vain attempt to soothe his buzzing mind. Perhaps they thought _he_ was the one assisting mages to freedom, or—

Someone cleared their throat behind him, interrupting his thoughts, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

He swivelled around at the noise, hand reflexively reaching for his sword, and he let out a long, pained groan as he noticed Shepard sat on his bed. She looked completely at ease there, as though her presence in his room was the most natural thing in the world; back propped against his pillow, legs outstretched, and one of his books open in her hands.

“Hi,” Shepard said, closing the book and leaning forward, shuffling so she was sat cross-legged on his bed. “Got any news for me?”

His mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a moment as he tried to formulate words. “I— why— what are you _doing_ here?!”

“I’m here to fuck you, obviously. But before we get to that, what have you found out about those missing mages?”

“Andraste’s flaming sword— you can’t just turn up in my quarters!”

“Oh, calm down, I made sure no-one saw me enter,” she said, rolling her eyes, and this right here was probably what the other men were talking about; the blighted apostate who wouldn’t stop pestering him, who flouted the Order’s rules and who now apparently had taken up breaking and entering. “Now - these mages. Tell me what you know.”

“ _Get out of my room_ ,” he hissed, opening his door and tentatively peering out into the corridor; it was empty, and he indicated for Shepard to exit, but she showed no inclination of leaving.

“It’s at least ten minutes until this corridor gets patrolled again. So talk quickly, and I’ll be out in five.”

“How do you— you know what; never mind,” he cut himself off, because he really didn’t need to know how she was so familiar with the patrol roster. He shut the door once more, speaking in a quick, hushed voice. “I haven’t found out anything that will help. They might as well be vanishing into thin air.”

“Have you been doing _anything_ all week? Another one went missing two days ago.”

“Yes, I have!” he protested, indignant, before checking himself and speaking quietly again. “I’ve practically been living at the storeroom, but someone still managed to get past me. Obviously you’re not the only mage who has the patrol roster memorised.”

“I think I probably am,” she said, the insinuation in her voice impossible to miss. “So that’s it? ‘Oh well, it’s only a couple of mages’?”

“No, that’s not _it_. I am considering asking the Champion of Kirkwall for her help; she’s been invaluable in these sorts of investigations before.” Hawke was certainly a resource, though one he was reluctant to use; she’d openly criticised Meredith in the past, and she could be just as glib as Shepard. Perhaps he’d leave it a few days before stooping to that.

“Okay,” Shepard said, looking relatively satisfied with that plan. “Also - I’ve been hearing some things. Apparently there’s some secret exit out of the city through a warehouse in the docks. Just across from where the Qunari were. So maybe you could investigate that?”

“Where exactly did you hear that?” 

“From a mage, who heard it from a mage who heard it from a Templar.”

Cullen groaned, rubbing his temples once more. “I plan on pursuing this properly, not through third-hand rumours. Now, if you’ll leave me—”

“Fine!” Shepard exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air and jumping up from the bed. “Seeing as you obviously don’t care, I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

She marched towards the door, but he firmly placed his across the wood as she tried to yank it open. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he hissed. 

“You had your chance; now it’s my turn,” she said, giving the door an almighty tug; her force surprised him, opening the door a few inches before he shoved it back into place. “Let me out, or I’ll stay here all night,” she warned.

“Promise me you aren’t going to sneak out to investigate.”

“I promise,” she said, far too quickly, and he didn’t believe her for a moment. He groaned once more, but removed his hand from the door, allowing her to slip out into the thankfully still-deserted corridor. 

He’d ask Hawke tomorrow for her help. Tonight, he needed sleep, and to get rid of the headache Shepard had left him with.

\---

As Cullen was proving incompetent, Shepard had no choice but to investigate the docks herself. She had honestly planned to leave him to it after first seeking out his help; she already had her plate full with busywork from Anders, and she couldn’t afford to keep sneaking out of the Gallows. But she’d learnt long ago that if she wanted a job done properly she’d have to do it herself, and over the last week Cullen had done nothing to change that opinion. Specifically, he’d done nothing. Thus she slipped out of her quarters just after sunset, armed with a few knives she’d managed to pilfer over the last few months and a cloak to conceal herself, and she located the dockside warehouse easily - far too easily, in her opinion. Her trusty passage out of the Gallows worked so well because of how innocuous it was; no passerby would give one tapestry in a string of many a second look, and even if they did the door beneath it was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding stone. But she knew instantly which warehouse was the supposed safe haven for mages; the last building on a dark alleyway, dank and squalid, but no cobwebs on the doorway and a well-worn doormat outside. The door was even unlocked, practically inviting in stray mages, but it was the smell as Shepard eased into the warehouse that really set her on edge. It was only a hint on the air, as though someone had tried to cover it up, but she was unfortunately all too familiar with it not to recognise it instantly; it was the smell of death, and she knew in that moment that no mages had gotten further than where she stood in their desperate search for freedom.

The warehouse, somewhat ominously, was already lit by sconces, but she proceeded regardless, hands on her daggers at all times. The entrance proved to be only a small antechamber; further in there was a large staircase descending down to a large, bare room which backed onto a small section of harbour. It wouldn’t have been a terrible option if it were an exit from the city; the harbour could have quite easily had a boat to transport any runaways to freedom, but there were no boats, and it looked as though there hadn’t been for quite some time. She continued walking towards the water regardless, but froze as the floorboards underneath her creaked unnaturally with her step; she looked down, heart hammering as she realised there was a trapdoor beneath her feet. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but instantly regretted it; the foul smell permeated her nostrils, so much more intense here than it had been upstairs. She grit her teeth instead as she opened the trapdoor, and her worst suspicions were confirmed; she reeled, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she desperately suppressed the urge to vomit at the overwhelming stench of decay. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, but it was no use; she knew the image under the floorboards would never leave her, that the mangled bodies and mouths contorted in silent, eternal screams would haunt her forever.

“Looks like we’ve caught another one.”

The hairs on the back of Shepard’s neck pricked up as she heard a man’s voice, and quite suddenly all the disgust, all the sorrow was gone; something in her snapped, and all that remained was anger. People who didn’t know Shepard well would say she was quick to anger, that she was hot-tempered and rash, but that simply wasn’t true; she could be impatient certainly, frustration flaring when met with a problem she couldn’t quickly solve, but it took a lot to make her truly angry. Barring this moment, there’d been only one time that she could’ve been described as _furious_ , as she stood in the wreckage of Mindoir amongst the bodies of her family; that rage had lasted years, had consumed her until there almost no _her_ left. That was why she kept such a tight hold on her rage ever since, because she’d hated the person that it had made her; but now, confronted by the dead bodies of people who simply wanted freedom, she couldn’t think of a single reason to stay calm.

She turned and stood, pulling down her hood as she looked towards the culprits; five Templars, three warriors and two rogues, who would damn well see the face of the woman who was about to eviscerate them. The tallest of the group, who stood a little way in front of the rest, actually looked pleased to see her, eyebrows lifting up and mouth contorting into a disbelieving grin.

That wouldn’t last long.

“Well, if it isn’t the Knight-Captain’s pet,” the apparent leader said. “The Knight-Commander will be glad. She’s been looking for a reason to get rid of you since you arrived.”

“Of course she has,” Shepard said, an odd serenity in her voice as she forced herself to keep them alive for a moment longer. “There never was a secret exit out of the city, was there?”

“No, there wasn’t. Men!” he barked, as the rest of the group approached her with their swords drawn.

“One moment,” Shepard said, raising her hand, and the leader looked flabbergasted that his comrades actually heeded her order, each stopping dumbly with their weapons still raised. “I just need to make sure I’ve got this absolutely right. You spread this information through the Gallows, for the sole purpose of luring mages here to murder. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

A small part of her – the _Shepard_ part that was so desperately struggling for control – needed to talk to them, needed to _understand_ them, needed to see if there was some humanity in them that could be saved. “ _Why_?”

A few of them actually laughed at that, and _Shepard_ was quickly smothered once more by her fury. “These mages proved they’d run if given half the chance. They are not innocent; they wanted to go against everything the Chantry says is moral and good. We gave them just enough rope to hang themselves with, and now we don’t have to worry about them turning to blood magic to escape.”

“This is _murder_ ,” Shepard said, voice low and deadly. “I’d ask you how you can live with yourselves, but that question’s rather irrelevant.”

“And why is that?” the leader asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Because you’re not going to be living for very much longer.”

The leader looked unimpressed, though the rest of his group were obviously unnerved by her; they shifted on their feet, fists tightening and loosening over their pommels. Perhaps it was her bravado, or perhaps it was the ferocity that radiated off of her which made them fear she was about to turn into an abomination; God, if she _were_ a mage she’d be way over that line by now. 

“Five Templars, one mage, no staff,” the leader summarised, as if _numbers_ would protect him. “Even with blood magic, you’re not going to come out of this alive.”

“I don’t need blood magic. Or even a staff.”

Ever the soldier, she’d been calculating her plan of attack since the moment they’d announced their presence. She didn’t need blood magic or a staff, that was true, but she did need a weapon more substantial than the knives at her belt. She knew her biotics were out the moment she saw their Templar armour, but if she was quick she could get in one Charge before they’d summoned their reserves. One Charge was all she needed.

The leader grit his teeth, and that signalled her move; she Charged, and time slowed as she targeted the leader, sending him flying through the air and slamming into the wall across the room. Summoning all her focus she twirled, time almost standing still as she whipped the daggers from the flanking rogue’s back and sliced one across his neck in one smooth motion. The rogue fell as her energy ebbed, time resuming its normal pace, and she had just enough foresight to feint right as two more warriors closed in on her. They took the bluff, overbalancing as she ducked out left; the swipe of her left dagger took out their Achilles, and the swipe of her right took out their necks.

_Two left._

The second rogue dashed towards her, and this one clearly wanted to make it a game, a grin on her face as she flourished her daggers in delight. It was clear she thought it would be easy; a mage playing with knives was obviously no match for a Templar rogue.

Shepard would teach her one last thing before she died. 

There was no flourish in Shepard’s technique when it came to hand-to-hand combat; N-school had well and truly beat that out of her. A flourish was a second wasted, a second longer for a bullet to catch you; her strikes were exactly what they needed to be and nothing more, lightning fast with pinpoint precision, hitting the enemy quickly and catastrophically before moving back to cover. That was why she was unbeaten in the sparring ring on Arcturus; that was why the resounding cry of the battlefield had been _don’t let Shepard get close_. Because letting Shepard get close was universally fatal.

The rogue made the first move; two jabs that were easily deflected by one of Shepard’s daggers. She threw her weight behind the block, surprising the rogue with her strength; the woman struggled for just a second too long to regain her balance, and that second was all Shepard needed. Her second dagger came in, embedding just below the woman’s chestplate, such force in her stab that she ricocheted off the metal protecting the opposite side of her body. Shepard withdrew and the rogue collapsed, eyes wide in surprise at being taken so quickly, the fight over before it had even begun, and Shepard understood that look, because in all honesty she’d been hoping for a challenge.

The remaining Templar was hardly going to provide that; he remained motionless on the floor, limbs akimbo, and as Shepard approached and saw the pool of blood developing underneath his head she thought he may already be dead. But then she saw his eyes flicker in her direction, fear clear as he struggled to push himself up, and she smiled. Good. He wasn’t getting out of it that easily.

Dropping her daggers, Shepard tested her biotics quickly; her hands surged with power, and she let it flow unreservedly. She Lifted him, pushing him firmly against the wall with the full force of her biotics, and he squirmed against the energy, hands twitching for the knives on his belt.

“You want these?” Shepard asked, plucking the weapons from him and embedding them in his palms; he screamed in agony, and she withdrew one of her own knives.

“What _are_ you?” he forced out as she raised the knife to his throat.

“I’m the finest fucking marine in the galaxy,” she whispered. “And I am stopping you from _ever_ hurting anyone again.”

She drew the knife across his throat, and as the life sparked out of his eyes the energy faded from her too; the body clattered to the floor, and she let her knife fall with it. The anger was quickly ebbing in the wake of all the blood and carnage, and it was a moment before Shepard realised she was shaking; it was though every muscle in her body was rebelling against her, fighting to get away from the monster she had just turned into, ashamed to be connected to such hatred and vengeance.

_Fuck._

She let out the scream that was welling up inside of her, hands balling to fists and punching the wall of their own accord. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ She was a killer, she had long accepted that fact, but the many deaths that lay behind her were a regretful necessity in her work, an act of self-preservation that allowed her to continue doing good. This? This she had enjoyed, and that sickened her.

“No need to cry,” a singsong voice sounded out; Shepard cast around the room, looking for the source, but found no-one. “Heads up!” the voice said again, and Shepard watched a woman jumped down from the ledge above her, landing gracefully on both feet, bow in hand. “Would’ve jumped in sooner, but it didn’t look like you needed the help,” the woman said. She was a good half a foot taller than Shepard, with jet black hair and what looked suspiciously like blood swiped across her face; Shepard frowned, cursing herself for dropping her weapons. “Nice work. Fenris, you owe me five sovereigns!” she called over her shoulder, and Shepard look up to see three other people stood there; the dwarf she’d met a lifetime ago in that pub, a tattooed elf, and a woman in what Shepard recognised as Guard uniform. “He bet you’d turn into a demon,” the woman said, turning back to Shepard and smiling at her.

“You again,” the dwarf - Varric, if she remembered correctly - noted. “You seem to have a knack for finding trouble. And Templars. So, was Blondie right? Was it all a trap?”

Shepard nodded. “The passageway out of this _fucking_ city is just a basement filled with corpses.”

“Good job we talked Anders out of coming; you did enough glowing blue for the lot of us. I’m Hawke,” she said, sticking her hand out.

“Shepard,” Shepard replied, shaking her hand as recognition dawned on her. “I thought Rutherford was lying about asking you to investigate.”

“The Knight-Captain?” Hawke asked, frowning. “He hasn’t said anything to me; Anders was the one to tip me off. I hear he’s a friend of yours too.”

“‘Friend’ is a strong word,” Shepard muttered. “At any rate, I’ve heard much about you. Your sister speaks very highly of you.”

“Ah, the better behaved Hawke girl,” Hawke said with a fond smile. “She’s a good kid.”

“I find it hard to believe you’re a Circle Mage,” the elf commented, glaring down at her.

“I’m a fairly recent addition. I—” she cut herself off as her ears pricked up, detecting the sound of footsteps just outside the room; she quickly backed up, grabbing her daggers from the floor and preparing herself once more to fight. Another Templar came hurtling down the stairs, sword drawn too, but she relaxed slightly on realising it was the Knight-Captain. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, quickly taking in the dead Templars, the bloodsoaked Shepard, and the Champion who had now moved to stand in front of her; his gaze settled on the most mangled of the corpses, the man who had apparently led the ill-fated group, and the little colour left in his face drained.

“ _Andraste’s blood_ ,” Cullen breathed. “What—how—” he stumbled, eyes darting towards Shepard; he obviously saw something in his face, because his own hardened, his grip tightening on his sword. “Did _you_ do this?”

“Yes, I did,” Shepard said firmly, that awful kernel of anger flickering to life again; she pushed past Hawke, squaring up to the Knight-Captain as best she could at a foot shorter than him.

“ _Why_?” he echoed her earlier question, as though _she_ were to blame for all this, and rage itched through her body as though her nerves were on fire.

“Why? _Why_?! You know why!” she screeched, ignoring Hawke’s attempt to placate her. “I told you I was concerned about these disappearances, that I didn’t believe they were simply escaping—”

“And I told you I would investigate!”

“But you didn’t! You waited until I took matters into my own hands – and guess what! Your precious fucking Templars have been luring mages here and murdering them! Look!” she spat, storming over to the trapdoor once more and flinging it open, doing her best not to look herself at the horror that was contained in there. She looked back to Cullen, whose eyes were anywhere but on the floor. “ _Look_!” she barked again, because he needed to see what his men had done; needed to realise that this was his fault as much as theirs.

Reluctantly, his gaze dropped, and he visibly recoiled and his eyes fell on the bodies beneath the floorboards; his jaw tightened, and when he spoke again his voice shook with some suppressed emotion.

“This was not sanctioned by the Order.”

“Are you _fucking_ serious?! This is the sort of behaviour you Order breeds! Hunting mages down like animals, forcing them to lash out because you keep them terrified! You treat them like they aren’t even people!”

“Shepard, stand down,” he said, voice hard and firm, raising his sword and shield in a defensive posture as she became more and more worked up; no doubt he feared the same as the men who now lay dead, that she was seconds away from erupting into an abomination.

“ _You_ stand down!” she shouted back, raising her own daggers in response. “Because if you try to fight me then I’ll tell you this; until this moment I have been holding back. And you better believe that what happened here is _nothing_ compared to what I am capable of.”

“Alright, let’s calm this down,” Hawke interrupted, positioning herself in between the pair. “No need for me to lose that bet now.” 

“Dare I ask why you’re here, Champion?” Cullen asked with as much civility as he could muster.

“Wrong place, wrong time?” Hawke shrugged. “Or right place, right time, depending on your point of view. We usually stumble onto these kind of things.”

“We?” Cullen repeated, and Hawke jerked her head in the direction of her companions; Cullen stiffened as he noticed them for the first time. “Ah. Guard-Captain,” he nodded at the woman in armour, who returned the gesture. “I appreciate your presence, but this is a Circle matter.”

“No harm in a bit of backup, Knight-Captain,” she said levelly. “It might interest you to know that your men attacked this woman first, and she was unarmed.”

Shepard didn’t bother to point out that her statement wasn’t technically true; Cullen already seemed to doubt it. “So an unarmed mage killed five Templars, all by herself?”

“I told you – I’ve been holding back.”

“As have I,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Maker’s breath. If any other Templar had found you here…” he sighed, the grip on his sword relaxing slightly. “We need to go. Someone else will notice you’re missing before long.”

She let out a single, humourless laugh. “If you think I’m setting foot back _there_ out of my own free will—”

“You’re outmanoeuvred, Shepard. Even if I let you go – even if you killed me here – we have your phylactery. Knight-Commander Meredith would not rest until you were dead. But if you choose to come back now—”

“If I willingly submit myself to Tranquility? I’d rather be hunted.”

“No-one outside this room need know of your involvement here.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hawke interrupted, looking at the Knight-Captain with great interest. “ _You_ are offering to cover for her? What a fascinating change of heart from the Knight-Commander’s right hand man.”

“I owe her my life; I cannot in good conscience take hers,” he said dismissively to Hawke. “But let me be very clear on this,” he continued, fixing Shepard with a steely glare. “This wipes clean whatever debt I may owe you. I cannot and will not protect you if you break the Circle’s rules again.”

“I never wanted nor needed your protection, _Knight-Captain_ ,” she said, spitting his title with as much scorn as she could manage. He looked at her for a long moment, and she fancied there was a hint of regret in his eyes – but then he shook his head and all that remained in his face was his duty.

“Let’s go,” he said firmly, sheathing his sword, and for a long moment Shepard considered killing him and taking her chances outrunning the rest of the Templars. But she’d killed enough for tonight, and the thought of further bloodshed made her stomach churn; instead she let her daggers clatter to the floor, drained of all energy and all will to fight. “Champion – if anyone asks—”

“Then your Templars attacked me, and I was forced to defend myself. In addition, I’ve never met her before,” she said, winking at Shepard.

“I’ll ensure the bodies of the mages are attended to,” the Guard-Captain added, and Shepard nodded gratefully.

“Thank you, Aveline,” Cullen replied. “Apprentice, put your hood up.”

“It’s _Commander_ , you dick.”

“Not anymore it isn’t.”


	16. Chapter 16

Over the next week, Shepard did a remarkable job of pretending Cullen didn’t exist. It wasn’t just a case of her simply ignoring his presence; she applied more effort to it than that. She acted as though he was invisible, looking _through_ him rather than around him, to the point that once Cullen had to dive out of the way to stop her colliding with him.

It was harder for Cullen. Void take him, there was a part of him that _liked_ her, that recognised her as a person rather than simply another mage, something that hadn’t happened since before the tragedy at Kinloch. He had few friends in Kirkwall; his position put him at a distance from both the other Templars and the citizens of the city, and in the few moments of quiet between his shifts it hit him how truly lonely his existence was. But with Shepard he’d had companionship; the two weeks they had travelled together on the way back to Kirkwall had been the most human Cullen had felt in years, and sometimes he even found himself missing them. She’d made him laugh, had made him think, had quite often frustrated him; but most of all, she’d treated him like a person, rather than as the _Knight-Captain_. And now that was destroyed, because of what his people had done to hers – and because even now, he couldn’t bear to admit that the Order he had pledged his life to might be wrong.

He’d try and throw himself into work as a distraction, as he had done for so many years, but it seemed as though Meredith no longer trusted him; she was passing him over for a number of missions, sticking him on courtyard duty when sense dictated he should be the one to investigate leads on apostates. Meredith had been… out of control, as of late. Cullen had resisted thinking about it for too long, but it had become too glaring to ignore; whether she had always been like this and he’d wilfully ignored it, or whether she’d only recently become too extreme not to notice, he didn’t know. But the punishments were more severe and for lesser offences, the patrols were doubled, and she retreated more to her office, barely spending any time with the recruits. 

Perhaps he could reach out to her, reaffirm his dedication to the Order - and so he found himself at her office during rostered hours off, keen to offer his service to whatever task she thought important. He knocked on her door, but there was no response; he knocked louder, but again there was nothing, and he pushed the door open, curious with no idea where else she could possibly be. Her office was indeed empty, and ordered to a fault; Meredith refused to let any sort of disorder into her life, even when it came to mess in her office. There were just two items out of place; two sheets of paper placed somewhat haphazardly on her desk, and curiosity got the better of him; he approached the desk, wondering if she’d had to run off due to an emergency report. It didn’t look like a report; it was a letter, addressed to Knight-Lieutenant Paxley, and it appeared to be a list of some sort. He frowned, stepping closer to read her tight writing, and recognised it as a list of mages’ names; he didn’t know what they could have in common, a mixture of Apprentices and a few fully Harrowed mages and… oh. Shepard’s name was on there.

That probably wasn’t good.

He turned the paper over, keen to see if her missive offered any information other than names, and his blood turned to ice in his veins as his eyes landed on the words _Rite of Tranquility_. Of course, _of course_ , Meredith wanted Shepard made Tranquil; why wouldn’t she? Shepard was smart and powerful and full of disdain for the Order’s authority - if anything it was a miracle Meredith hadn’t ordered the Rite already. But he couldn’t let it happen, even after their argument at the docks and his pledge never to protect her again. A lifetime ago he’d promised he’d kill her rather than let her be made Tranquil, and he really didn’t know what was worse; the thought of slaying her, or the thought of speaking to her once all that emotion, all that _life_ , had been erased by the Brand.

This was why Templars and mages were not allowed to be friends.

He heard a noise outside the door, and he jumped, rushing to replace the sheet of paper and to stand at a reasonable distance from the desk, trying his best to appear guilt-free. A few short seconds later the door opened and the Knight-Commander came in, looking ever so slightly taken aback by his presence.

“Knight-Captain. What are you doing in here?”

“Knight-Commander,” he nodded back. “I hope you don’t mind me waiting for you in here - I have some free time, and wondered if there were any duties you needed covering.”

She stared at him hard for a moment before relaxing, seeming to view his request as an innocent one. “Thank you Cullen, but no. If you wish to offer your assistance, we can always use more Templars in the courtyard.”

He nodded, suppressing a sigh as she once again assigned him with a menial task. “Of course, Knight-Commander. If there’s anything else—”

“There is not,” she said shortly, waving to dismiss him as she turned her attention to the papers on her desk, and he quickly took his leave before he could do anything to reveal he’d read them. He eased out into the corridor, quickly making his way back to his quarters as his mind raced to come up with any possible solution to get Shepard out of Tranquility. But he was drawing a blank, other than helping her to escape, and though he didn’t agree with making her Tranquil he wasn’t about to go _that_ far. He needed to drop the hint somehow, so that she’d take it upon herself to escape - but she wouldn’t even talk to him right now, let alone trust him with something as serious as this.

 _Maker_. This was going to be difficult.

\---

It was a week before Shepard had the opportunity to slip out of the Circle once more; Rutherford was unrelenting in his watch of her, and there was no longer any geniality there for him to turn a blind eye to her transgressions. When she finally managed to get away, it was with a certain amount of trepidation. She knew Hawke would have already reported what had happened in the docks to Anders, and she hoped that her evisceration of the responsible Templars would do something to ease the blow, but she still expected his reaction to the events to be… violent. Over the months she had known him, Anders’ emotions had grown more unstable, and she’d seen him break into Justice more times than she would’ve liked; to be honest it _scared_ her, seeing the man lose control to the spirit - demon, whatever it was - that inhabited his body, and she couldn’t entirely fault the Templars for wanting to guard against people like him.

She could pretend that working with him was entirely altruistic; she did know that the Circle was flawed and corrupt and a death sentence for many mages who only wanted their freedom. But to be honest, much of her motivations were selfish; she wanted out, wanted to be free herself, wanted to run without having to constantly look over her shoulder, and this was the only way she knew to go about that. But he’d put her off for far too long with impassioned pleas for justice and vague assurances that he was ‘making headway’ finding Liara. She was _done_ , totally and utterly, with the Circle; she was sick of the loneliness, sick of the silence, sick of feeling as though her life was completely out of her control. She was not leaving his clinic today until he gave her an exit plan, and the information he’d guaranteed he'd acquired on Liara’s whereabouts.

She slipped into Anders’ clinic, pulling the hood of her cloak down as she walked up to him. He didn’t even notice her presence at first; he looked distracted, huddled over his little desk and frantically scribbling words onto paper. His clinic was much sparser than when she’d been there last; barring a few leaves of paper his desk was clear of any clutter, no bric-a-brac or personal belongings in sight, the shelves even stripped of their usual tonics and reagents.

“Going somewhere?”

He jumped, glancing up at her, eyes going wide with surprise. “Shepard,” he said, hurriedly tidying his papers and shoving them into a drawer. “I wasn’t expecting you. Hawke told me what happened at the docks; I feared for the worst when you didn’t report back to me.”

“And yet I notice you didn’t rush to my rescue,” she glowered, but Anders said nothing. He didn’t have to; they both knew she was merely a tool to him. “So what did Hawke tell you?”

His face hardened, pushing up from his seat and stepping round his table to face her. “That the Templars have been luring mages out of the Circle and murdering them.”

“It wasn’t all of the Templars,” she clarified, but she wasn’t sure that would matter to him. “It was a group of five. They’d been spreading rumours amongst mages of a secret exit from the city, then ambushing them. They won’t be doing it anymore.”

“It never ends,” Anders muttered, before the anger within him sparked to life; his skin flared, body and eyes glowing blue as he was taken over once again by that force inside him. “This is the final straw. They must be held accountable for their actions!”

“They’re dead, Anders,” Shepard said, trying to pacify him. “I killed everyone responsible. They can’t be held much more accountable than that.”

“That is not enough!” he spat, pacing the room now, and Shepard edged closer towards the door. “This sort of behaviour is encouraged by the Circle! The Knight-Commander would congratulate them for doing this!”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she persisted, because she really didn’t. Meredith had many flaws, and though her methods were harsh Shepard honestly didn’t think she intended to be malicious. Cruelty was a side-effect of her methods, not the main aim; she was ruthless, relentless, clearly terrified by the power mages wielded, but despite all that she wasn’t vindictive. It was a small distinction, and one which would not save her from the downfall she undoubtedly deserved, but it made Shepard pity rather than hate her.

“Of course it’s true!” Anders argued. “She has subjugated our people for years! How could you even know that this was the work of an isolated group?!”

“The Knight-Captain,” Shepard said reluctantly. “He told me it wasn’t—”

“And you believed him?” Anders - Justice - cut her off, voice full of scorn. “I will never understand the faith you seem to place in that man. You should have killed him in the docks along with the rest.”

“They aren’t all bad,” she said firmly, defending him despite their argument back in the warehouse. “Just like not all mages are good. If you let justice be black and white, you’re no better than those you’re fighting against.”

Something in her words offered Anders a chance to claw back control; he fell to his knees, blue glow flickering, and after a moment he looked up at her with eyes full of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Justice is becoming more vengeful by the day. But it is not wrong, Shepard; they view us all the same, and we cannot afford to think any different of them.”

“Damnit, Anders; Rutherford saw me standing over five dead Templars and just calmly escorted me back to the Circle.” She softened slightly, approaching him and putting her hand out; he took it, allowing her to help him off the floor. “Grey is difficult to work with; believe me, I know that. But true justice can acknowledge that the world is grey.”

“If I had met you years ago, you might have been able to persuade me,” he said sadly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Shepard asked, brow furrowing, and he dropped her gaze, making his way over to his desk once more.

“You’ll have your freedom tonight,” he told her, refusing to meet her eyes. “Just be careful.”

“You’re worrying me now,” she said, approaching him. “What have you done?”

“What I have done cannot be undone, no matter what you say or do,” he told her firmly, and a firm sense of dread settled in in her gut; righteous anger she expected, Justice she could deal with, but she’d never seen him like _this_ , resigned and sad in an ominously empty home. She rounded the table towards him, ignoring that familiar blue glow of his as she pushed him roughly into the wall and pinned him there.

“ _Tell me what you’ve done_ ,” she hissed as he struggled against her grip.

“Release us, Shepard,” the voice of Justice sounded, but she refused to be threatened by what she was becoming more and more convinced was a demon; she shoved him hard once more, and he growled in anger as he tried to reach for his staff. “War is upon us. The Chantry will turn to ash. Your Templar friend will die. There will be no half-measures, no room for greyness.”

Her eyes widened at his omission, and he sensed her distraction; he hit her full force in the chest with an ice spell, sending her flying across the floor. She gasped for air as Justice bore down on her, and she had no doubt he planned to enact whatever _justice_ he thought she needed; she summoned her energy, Throwing him as hard as she could. He was lifted from his feet, clattering into the wall once more, and she didn’t wait to see if he got back up; she scrambled to her feet, pelting out of his clinic at top speed, not slowing her rate until she was out of Darktown.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, leaning against a wall as she attempted to regain her breath. Whatever Anders had planned, she knew it involved the Chantry and would most likely be catastrophic, and for a brief, shameful second she considered letting his plan unfold, taking her freedom from it as he’d offered. But she simply couldn’t. She was Commander Shepard; Commander Shepard did not allow other people to die when she could prevent it, did not allow chaos to unfold for her own gains. She refused to be any less than she was; even if she died, even if she was made Tranquil for it, she’d go out fighting for peace. 

Even if she’d never see Liara again. 

_Liara_. She’d been so distracted by Anders’ plot that she’d forgotten why she’d gone to him in the first place, but there was no going back now. It wouldn’t surprise her if Anders had lied about looking for her anyway; what was a little deception to a man who wanted the Chantry to burn? The truth, which Shepard was trying her best to avoid, was that Liara was most likely lost to her; the key time to find her had been months ago, when she’d first emerged from the Deep Roads lost and confused. Since then she’d let time slip by her, wasting it running from Templars and playing spy games, and now what was more likely? An Asari successfully integrating in medieval human society, or being run through and left for dead at the side of a road?

No, no, _no_ , she refused to think of that now; she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately humming a half-formed tune to distract her from that awful thought. Save the Chantry first, give in to suffocating guilt later. Her eyes snapped open once more and she took a deep breath as she forced herself to focus on the most immediate issue. Though she could sneak about in the shadows of Darktown just fine, guns blazing was her best approach - but even if guns had been invented in this godforsaken world, storming into the Chantry in the middle of the day was going to get her killed. She needed backup, needed weapons, needed a free pass around the city - essentially, she needed a Templar.

Well, one particular Templar.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she repeated, before standing up straight and starting her run once more. Apparently she had some grovelling to do.

\---

Cullen paced back and forward in his quarters as he rehearsed his speech once more in his mind. Maker take him, it kept changing every time, as he forgot key phrases and decided that certain words were too stilted and obvious. This was in no way going to work. He might as well just give up now, call off the meeting and—

And his door creaked open, Knight-Lieutenant Paxley stepping into his room looking somewhat baffled, and he’d have to go ahead with the blighted thing after all.

“Knight-Captain? You asked for me?”

“Yes. Thank you for joining me, Paxley; there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.” The Knight-Lieutenant said nothing, looking on at him expectantly, and there was nothing left for it but to plough on in. “A copy of the Knight-Commander’s latest instructions regarding the apprentices seems to have inadvertently made its way into my reports,” Cullen lied, and it was _obviously_ a lie, and he was sure Paxley wouldn’t believe it for a moment. “It mentioned you as the executor of her… recommendations.”

“I see,” Paxley said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Perhaps you should discuss this with the Knight-Commander yourself, if you wish to know why you weren’t privy to—”

“You and I both know how that conversation would go,” Cullen snapped. Paxley continued to eye him warily and, taking a steadying breath, he spoke again, trying once more to sound nonchalant. “There are a large number of apprentices she wishes to be made Tranquil.”

“There are,” Paxley agreed.

“A number of the suggestions confused me. I wish to know why exactly she recommended the de Launcet boy for Tranquility.”

“Er… you’re curious about the de Launcet boy?” Paxley asked, brow quirking upwards.

“Him, and others,” Cullen persisted as he attempted to bury what he was truly interested in. “Gravin, the Thenardieu siblings, Shepard—”

“Which all due respect, Knight-Captain,” Paxley said softly, seeing straight through his woefully transparent act, “her name is perhaps the most reasonable recommendation on the list.”

“And why would that be?”

“The Knight-Commander believes she’s a blood mage and heavily involved in this Mage Underground. Furthermore, her progress in her training her been substandard for months.”

“Nonsense,” Cullen scoffed. “I’ve seen her fight; she’s tremendously talented.”

“In her hedge magic, perhaps. But classical training seems to elude her; she’s either incapable of or unwilling to perform the simplest of spells. She’s dangerous.”

“All mages are dangerous, but she is not a blood mage,” Cullen said firmly.

“The Knight-Commander wouldn’t sanction this if she didn’t have proof. She has reason to believe she was involved in those dockside deaths last week.” Cullen’s stomach churned uncomfortably at that; he knew for a fact Shepard _was_ responsible for those deaths, but how could Meredith have any proof? And if she knew about Shepard, did that mean she knew he had been there too? Was she one step away from throwing him out of the Order, like Samson before him?

If she was, then he supposed he had nothing left to lose.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Paxley,” Cullen muttered. 

“Yes, ser?”

“I would like you to ask the Knight-Commander if—if Shepard’s Tranquility can be reconsidered.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Postponed, then,” Cullen cut off his objections. “Until she has had more time to prove herself.”

“Perhaps you ought to ask Meredith yourself, ser,” Paxley offered, growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment, but Cullen shook his head; the sole reason he was asking the Knight-Lieutenant was so that he could bypass Meredith.

“She would not listen to the request if it came from me; she already thinks I’m too close to Shepard.”

“You _are_ too close,” Paxley mumbled, and Cullen’s eyes narrowed.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Paxley dropped his eyes to the floor, avoiding Cullen’s gaze. “There’s a rumour that… well…”

“Say what you have to say, Knight-Lieutenant.”

“People have been saying that she’s bewitched you,” he told him reluctantly, before adding: “that you’re sleeping with her.”

Whatever Cullen had been expecting the gossip about him to be, it had not been _that_ ; he spluttered, choking on the very air he was breathing as his face began to burn. It would probably be easier to explain his motives if he _were_ sleeping with her. Lust, romantic affection, ill-considered trysts in darkened corners; those things were straightforward, understandable, even expected to some degree. But that wasn’t it. Whilst he could reluctantly admit to himself that he had been physically attracted to Shepard in the first moments of their meeting, that was before she used her magic; the force energy that radiated from her fingertips had quickly erased all desire for her, and he barely even saw her beauty anymore. He just saw Shepard, a woman with a big mouth but a good heart and an awful knack for finding trouble. How was he supposed to explain that he just… liked her?

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Cullen muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “This would be the real reason Meredith wants her Tranquil, of course.”

“I suspect so,” Paxley agreed, and then, tentatively, “ _are_ you?”

“I—am I—how _dare_ you ask that of your commanding officer!” Cullen yelped, indignant. “Of course I’m not!”

“Really? Because I know you didn’t report her to the Knight-Commander when she was out of bed that evening. Plus, the footsteps I heard that night were very heavy for a mage…”

“So when you say ‘there’s a rumour’, you’re telling me _you_ started it,” Cullen accused, glaring at him.

“No, ser; I didn’t need to add fuel to that fire.” Cullen, not entirely believing him, continued to scowl, and Paxley sighed. “If you’re not, then why does it matter? She’s just another mage. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?”

“ _No_ ,” he answered without even thinking, surprising even himself with the conviction of his words. No, he wouldn’t prefer that; even if she proved him wrong somewhere down the line, she deserved a chance. Really, they all deserved a chance.

“Cullen, I don’t think—”

Whatever Paxley didn’t think was cut off as the door burst open; Cullen jumped, drawing his sword on impulse, because no Templar would walk into their commanding officer’s room with such force. And it wasn’t a Templar; it was Shepard, eyes wide and seeming out of breath as she careened into the room, coming to stop with one hand braced against his dresser.

“Oh, for the love of—what is it, Apprentice?” he asked severely, because her storming into his quarters in such a fashion _really_ wasn’t helping her case. She ignored his tone, addressing him as though Paxley wasn’t even present.

“I need to speak with you. Urgently.”

“Maker’s breath; how did she even get in here? Aren’t there Templars on the corridor?” Paxley asked, bemused, and Shepard rolled her eyes impatiently as she turned towards the Knight-Lieutenant.

“Yes, but your patrols are awfully easy to predict. Now beat it; I need to talk to the Knight-Captain.”

“You would talk to me like that, mage?” Paxley demanded, incensed. “You really have no concept of—”

“I _really_ don’t have time for you,” Shepard interrupted. “This is serious.”

“Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of Ser Paxley,” Cullen said firmly, and though Shepard looked thoroughly annoyed by him she didn’t press the issue, which in itself should have worried Cullen.

“I… God, fine,” she huffed. “I have reason to believe that there is going to be an attack on the Chantry.”

Cullen exchanged a brief, fearful look with his Knight-Lieutenant at that news. Though he knew she had a certain fondness for embellishment, there was no question in his mind that she was telling the truth on this; he could sense her panic bubbling just beneath the surface, and it scared him. “Andraste’s blood; an attack on the Chantry? Wha—how do you know about this?”

She looked awkward for a moment at that question, but answered him all the same. “I may or may not be in contact with certain prominent members of the Mage Underground.”

“Who?” Cullen asked, eyes narrowing, though he suspected he knew the answer. She shuffled on her feet for a moment before replying.

“Anders.”

He groaned, running his fingers through his hair as Paxley became even more enraged, though to Cullen her involvement with the Underground wasn’t even close to surprising. “See, Knight-Captain? Meredith is right, she’s—”

Cullen waved a hand to silence him. None of that mattered now; all that mattered was keeping people safe, and once that was achieved then they could worry about rebel mages. “When is this attack to be? And what is their plan?”

“I don’t know,” Shepard admitted, worrying at her bottom lip. “I’m sorry; I really don’t know much. All I know is something’s going to happen tonight and I—I’m worried.”

He studied her for a moment, needing to be sure that this wasn’t some plan of hers; but the way she looked at him, eyes desperate and earnest, told him all he needed to know. “I need to investigate this at once.”

“Fantastic,” she said, offering him a tentative smile. “I’ll come with.”

“Absolutely not!” Paxley interrupted. “For all we know this ‘Chantry attack’ is a ruse to allow you to escape!”

“Are you still here?” Shepard snapped at him, and Cullen was surprised he couldn’t see steam coming out of Paxley’s ears.

“Knight-Captain, I must insist—”

“Look here, butterbar; you’re welcome to shout your mouth off about rules and regs instead of doing something useful, but know this - if something happens, and people die, then I am holding _you_ personally responsible, and I will come after you for it.”

“Shepard, that really isn’t helping,” Cullen interrupted before they could come to blows, and she turned on him instead.

“I’m trying to help!” she argued, high-pitched and emphatic, before regulating herself slightly. “I _can_ help. Rutherford, please; I don’t want a war. I don’t even want to escape. Well, I do, but not right now. I just want people to be safe.”

“Then let us hurry,” Cullen said, ignoring the disapproving noise Paxley made. “Paxley; if anyone asks—”

“Tell them we’re off being big goddamn heroes,” Shepard completed his sentence. “Can I get my armour?”

“No.”

“Worth a shot,” Shepard shrugged. “Can I get some daggers?”

“Wha—no!” he spluttered. “And why are you asking for daggers? Why don’t you want a staff?”

“I don’t need a staff; I need daggers.” He was unpersuaded, and so she continued. “If we stumble into some blood mage plot, you’re gonna want me armed.”

That was true; and really, there was little point in Shepard coming along if she wasn’t able to fight. He might as well let her use her abilities - even if it risked her turning them against him. She probably wouldn’t kill him, even now - or so he hoped. “Fine,” he grumbled, opening the chest in the corner of his room and pulling out a decent, barely-used set of daggers he’d bought several years ago. He handed them to her, and after a quick appraisal of their weighting she attached them to her back with a halter he also provided her with.

“Knight-Captain, I must protest—”

“Your protestations have been noted, Knight-Lieutenant,” Cullen replied bluntly. “I suggest you raise them with the Knight-Commander. Shepard; we should go.”

She didn’t need telling twice; she nodded, sweeping out of his room, and Cullen quickly followed her, allowing himself a small smile as Paxley’s splutters of disbelief faded into the distance. He’d worry later about how running off with a mage might look; right now, he had a Chantry to save.


	17. Chapter 17

They didn’t speak as they raced through the Gallows, ignoring the bemused looks of Templars and mages alike, although occasionally Cullen had to shout reassurances over his shoulder that everything was fine, and that he wasn’t chasing Shepard. He was grateful not to run into too many recruits, and more grateful still not to run into Meredith, who he was sure would kill them both on the spot if she found them working together - even if it was to save them all. Despite her short stature, Shepard was a good runner; it took her two strides to match one of his but she still kept up, light on her feet and able to dart round corners with much more ease than him. Of course, that shouldn’t have surprised him; she’d already succeeded in outrunning him for a week. 

They arrived waterside in record time, and Cullen quickly acquired a boat to transport them across to the main docks at Kirkwall; he also enlisted several bemused and slightly scared dock workers to man it, and ushered a barely-breathless Shepard aboard. It was only then, as she bounced on the balls of her feet, refusing to sit down as she waited impatiently for them to reach dry land again, that he considered the fact he had a lot to say to her - and that he didn’t know where to begin.

“I did care,” was how he ended up starting, mind drifting to the last conversation they’d had where they weren’t screaming at each other. She frowned at him, obviously not following the same train of thought, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he clarified. “Before, in my quarters, you said that I didn’t care about the mages going missing. I did. I just… I didn’t want to believe Templars were responsible. But you were right, and I should have taken you more seriously. I’m sorry.”

Shepard let out a long, slow exhale as her nervous energy began to ebb, pushing back a few stray strands of hair which had escaped from her braid during their run. “It’s fine; you weren’t involved.”

“No, it isn’t fine. It’s…” he groaned, frustrated with his inability to express himself; but how could he hope to put it into words, when he could barely understand how he was feeling? “The Circle is not the place I once thought it was. What happened in that warehouse is the true abomination.”

“Oh,” Shepard mumbled, appearing almost humbled by his honesty. “That’s… remarkably insightful of you.” She was quiet for a moment, stilling, serene as she looked out across the water. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too,” she forced the word out, as though she wasn’t used to saying it. “I reacted badly. They _had_ to die,” she said, quickly and firmly, “they were going to kill me. But… I let myself get carried away with exacting revenge. I’ve tried for a very long time not to be that person, but I failed myself. It will not happen again. I will be - I _am_ \- better than that.”

She was so honest, so candid with him, that at first he didn’t know what to say; he always expected Shepard to be glib and dismissive whenever they spoke. It was one of the few instances he’d ever seen her expose a deeper part of herself, but it didn’t make him feel better; there was a sadness about her, a disappointment and disapproval of herself that didn’t make sense to him.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he said after some time, but she shook her head with a wry smile. 

“I went a few steps past anger, Cullen.”

It was strange, to hear her address him by his given name. He was always _Rutherford_ ; a distinctly military distance in the tone she took with him. After all this time, he still didn’t know her first name. “Maybe so,” he acknowledged. “But none of us are perfect.”

“Oh, I’m pretty close,” she said, smirking at him, and that hint of vulnerability was gone as she covered it once more in bluster. It was… disappointing, but he understood it; they might be working together now but she was a still a mage, and he was still a Templar. She couldn’t afford to show him that side of herself; she’d seen by now only too well what happened to the mages that showed their fear.

 _And what would happen to her_. He remembered suddenly the conversation he’d been having just before she’d interrupted, and realised this was the perfect moment to broach the subject. He looked furtively over his shoulder; the workers manning the boat were absorbed in their work, but he still lowered his voice and spoke in hushed, urgent tones.

“Shepard, once this is over—you need to run.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Knight-Commander… she wants to make you Tranquil,” he told her grimly. He was surprised that she didn’t react more violently, especially after what she’d said to him in the Dalish camp those months ago; she merely looked as though comprehension was dawning on her.

“Oh. That.”

“You _knew_?” he asked, aghast.

“I suspected,” she shrugged. “Have you only just realised this?”

“Yes. I came across some instructions today suggesting that you undergo the Rite.” 

“And you’re surprised?” Shepard chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I can’t tell if you’re wilfully ignorant or just naïve. She was obviously going to make this decision; she hates me, and has done right from the start.”

“You have hardly done much to create a good impression,” he grumbled.

“Well, what does she want? I’m in control of my abilities and I’ve never practised blood magic. That is the definition of a good mage. But obviously she wants mindless subordination rather than any challenge or intellectual discourse—”

“May I remind you that you _have_ been working with the Mage underground?” he bristled.

“Self-preservation is a natural impulse of every single living being,” she said, waving dismissively at him.

“You could also preserve yourself by towing the line.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and he sighed. “But I might as well be banging my head against a brick wall, telling you that.”

“You think I break rules just for the sake of it. I don’t; I break them when I don’t see the point of them. But I might as well be banging _my_ head against a wall by explaining that to you.”

“You think I follow rules just for the sake of it?” he asked, astounded at her assessment of him, especially where they stood now. “Shepard, I’m a Templar telling a mage to run away from the Circle.”

“I suppose you are,” she acknowledged with a small smile. “And what about my phylactery?”

He considered her for a long moment, allowing himself one final flash of hesitation before committing to the path so contrary to what he’d walked thus far. As if he hadn’t been dancing this line since he met her. With a sigh and a small shake of his head, he reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a vial of blood which glowed brightly in the presence of its respective mage. The glass clinked against his metal gauntlets as he offered it to her in his outstretched palm; she picked it up tentatively, frowning at him as though convinced he was playing a trick on her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, turning the little vial over in her fingers as she continued to regard him curiously. “Why do you have this with you?”

Because he’d taken it from the storeroom that afternoon, a contingency plan in case his persuasion of Paxley proved fruitless; that was the most straightforward explanation. But the real answer was more than that. He’d taken it because it was the right thing to do; because she was a better person than him, and deserved better than the fate in store for her. And because he couldn’t bear the thought of her being made any less than she was.

Of course, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing any of that.

“I’m wildly in love with you,” he deadpanned. “I carry it by my heart at all times.”

She blinked, once, before positively _cackling_ with laughter, eyes crinkled and shoulders shaking with the force of her amusement, and maybe she _had_ bewitched him after all, because even in their current state of peril he couldn’t help but chuckle along with her. She swatted him playfully on the shoulder before tucking her phylactery into her own breast pocket, laughter settling though her smile remained.

“I’ve corrupted you, Rutherford.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Shepard,” he returned with reflexive gruffness, and he wasn’t sure entirely why. “This is about more than just you.”

“Then what about you?” she asked, serious now. “They’ll know you helped me escape. If they don’t kill you they’ll at least kick you out, and then—”

“They might suspect, but they cannot know for sure,” he said, reassuring himself as much as her. “Regardless, I will figure something out.”

“You could run away with me,” she offered, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and he let out a single huff of laughter. 

“Tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll have to decline.”

“Pity. So what’s the plan instead? Overthrowing the maniacal overlord and declaring yourself supreme ruler of the Circle?”

“I… don’t know,” he said truthfully, because he really hadn’t thought that far ahead; he was far from happy with things as they were, but he had no idea how to change them. Working covertly with mages had turned out terribly for both Thrask and Samson, but outright dissent sounded like an even worse idea.

“Can I make a suggestion?” she asked, though she didn’t need his permission to continue. “Cut your losses. Open a shop or something. Just get out of this place.”

“And it would be that easy, would it?” he scoffed. “To simply leave the Templars?”

“I didn’t think you were the type of man to avoid doing something just because it was difficult.”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even if he wanted to leave, even if he didn’t require lyrium just to function, the Templars had been his whole life since he was a boy. He couldn’t abandon them - especially not now. “Despite what has happened here, I believe in the Order.”

“But you aren’t happy.”

There was no need for him to confirm or deny that; they both knew it was the truth. But it didn’t matter. “Being a Templar is about duty, not happiness.”

“How boring.”

They passed the rest of the boat trip in silence, and when they finally moored Shepard jumped from the boat before they were even tied to solid ground, Cullen scrambling after her. She paused however, on confronting the winding dockside streets, turning to Cullen for advice for what had to be the first time ever.

“Which way?” she asked.

“The Chantry is in Hightown; we will need to go through Lowtown to get there,” he told her, pointing in the correct direction; she nodded, and started her jog again. Maker, did the woman ever get tired? “I trust you have a plan?” he asked as he matched her pace.

“How am I supposed to have a plan? We don’t even know what we’re facing; we’ll just have to wing it,” she told him, and it sounded like she was actually _excited_ by the whole situation. “Just… let me do the talking.”

“As if I could stop you,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“Hey - I’m good at talking. I once stopped a war just by shouting at people.”

“You’re good at—”

His retort died on his lips as the sky erupted in an unnatural, burning red light; he instinctively shielded his eyes against it as he tried to locate where it was coming from, his insides turning to ice as he realised it was coming from the direction of Hightown. Even from the distance they were, he could hear the rendering of stone and steel, an awful metal screech that dug deep into his brain, and the very air around him vibrated with the sound. No, that wasn’t it; the air was shuddering with _magic_ , powerful and untamed, resonating with the lyrium in his veins and humming in his chest.

He turned towards Shepard who, for once in her life, seemed at a loss for words; mouth hanging open, she gazed up at the monstrous beam, face contorted into an expression of such devastation that it physically pained Cullen to look at her. 

“We were too late,” she forced out, voice hoarse and full of emotion. “We— I— my God…” she trailed off, looking on in horror as the beam contracted in on itself and then exploded, shooting debris out as far as the eye could see. She stood rooted to the spot, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her into the relative shelter of an archway and bracing himself for what he knew was to come. A few seconds later, he saw the first pieces fall, brick and wood and fire clattering to the ground, ricocheting off buildings and causing a chain reaction of flames and destruction all around them.

“Did you know?” he asked Shepard furiously, his grip on her arm so tight that his gauntlets bit into her skin. But she didn’t notice it; she barely noticed he was there, so intently was she watching the disaster unfold, and he shook her to regain her attention. “Did you know this was his plan?!”

“If I’d have known, do you think I would have let him live?”

He really didn’t know, was the honest answer to that; maybe she thought they’d have time to stop it, or maybe she was so impressed with herself that the possibility of failure never once crossed her mind. That didn’t matter now; the fact was the Chantry was most likely obliterated and, regardless of the long-term implications of that, the immediate consequences for the people of the city were dire.

“I need to regroup with the Templars,” he said, more to himself than to Shepard. They needed a plan, quick intervention to ensure the city didn’t descend into madness, and that would have to start at the Gallows; the last thing they needed was the mages running rampant, especially since he suspected that was the second part to Anders’ plan. “Just… just go,” he told her, but she shook her head viciously.

“No. We need to start putting fires out, or evacuate the city. People will be panicking. Where’s the most populated?”

It said a lot about her that, in that moment, her first thought was not one of order - as his was - or one of self-preservation, as she’d spoken about. No; it was one of protection, of the selfless preservation of others, when the easiest thing for her to do would be to sneak off amidst the carnage and slip away to freedom, and he couldn’t help but admire her for that.

“Lowtown,” he told her. “But Shepard—”

“Do what you want; I have to help.” She hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say to him, before reaching out and grasping him by the shoulder; a gesture of camaraderie that seemed oddly… _right_. “Good luck. Try not to die, okay?”

She let go of him, turning away and taking off towards Lowtown, and he couldn’t leave it like that; he _wanted_ to fight with her, to help save people by her side and also, if he allowed himself to be honest just this once, he wanted to make sure she was safe too. 

“ _Maker preserve me_ ,” he muttered as he ran after her, quickly pulling up next to her once more, and she shot him an infectious grin that made him believe, just for a moment, that they could still save the day after all.

“Decided your chances are better with me?” she asked, and he chuckled.

“Something like that,” he replied.

\---

They made their way through the docks and into Lowtown, and it was already worse than Cullen had expected; the nearer they got to the Chantry, the worse the destruction was, broken buildings and screaming civilians and, occasionally, a body in the street. They did their best to help organise those already out panicking, but it was hard to get through to them; too scared to listen to reason, they could only think of escaping the city, ignoring Shepard’s impassioned pleas for them to remain calm.

“Let’s get to the Hanged Man,” he told Shepard as another person ran terrified from them. “We’ll set up a base for survivors and recruit those able to put out fires.”

“Good plan,” she nodded, face clouding as she saw something over Cullen’s shoulder. He turned, and his stomach lurched as he saw the Meredith and a dozen other Templars approaching them, her face set in a fury he’d never seen before. Her sword was already drawn, glowing red, and for a moment he thought she meant to strike Shepard down then and there; instinctively he took a step forward, placing himself between Templar and mage. Meredith came to stop several feet from them, eyes darting between the pair before resting on Shepard.

“What is the meaning of this, Cullen?” she spat, glaring at Shepard as though hoping to kill her with just a look. 

“I—er—” he faltered, floundering to explain himself in a way that Meredith would accept, though he suspected there wasn’t one. And why did he need to explain himself? This wasn’t _wrong_ ; this was two people working together to achieve a common goal. Her magic just meant she could achieve that goal more effectively.

“Knight-Commander,” Shepard said, stepping forward now and addressing Meredith as though she was another one of her soldiers. “If I may - I suggest splitting your forces. Leave some men here to help round up survivors, and send an envoy back to the Gallows to fetch the more experienced Enchanters—”

“You expect us to work with you?!” she demanded, rounding on Shepard. “After what you’ve done here?”

“I haven’t done anything,” she said, firm yet still earnest. “This is the last thing I ever would have wanted. _Please_. The only way this,” she said, gesturing between herself and the group of Templars, “can ever stop is if we work together.”

“You had an opportunity to work with us, and you chose to ally yourself with the rebels and blood mages of the Underground instead. Do you deny your association with them? Do you deny your murder of my men just last week?”

Cullen barely dared breathe as he watched the confrontation unfold; he could see the Templars flanking Meredith shift restlessly, several of them readying their weapons, and he couldn’t entirely blame them - those men dead in the docks had been their brothers, and friends.

“I don’t deny it,” Shepard said, and Cullen did his best not to grimace at the admission, “but those men attacked me. I regret what happened there, but it was self-defence.” At least she wasn’t being flippant, that was something - it seemed as though even she realised the graveness of the situation, because the way she spoke was soft and almost sorrowful. But he wasn’t sure it would help her.

“You _regret_ it?” Meredith scoffed, before turning to her Knight-Captain. “Is this what she’s been telling you, Cullen? Do you honestly believe this apostate when she says she wants to work with us?”

He ignored the sarcasm in her tones, not answering her questions and instead attempting to respond with logic. “There are many mages who would be only too happy to offer assistance here, and in addition their ice magic—”

“They have destroyed the Chantry!” Meredith all but screeched at him. “They have murdered the Grand Cleric! It is too late for compromise; they have made sure of that, and now we must respond in kind!”

His stomach dropped at the implication of her words. “Knight-Commander, surely you don’t mean to—”

“I have invoked the Rite of Annulment,” she confirmed his suspicion as she stared directly at Shepard, sword twitching in her hand.

“I don’t know what that is, but I have a feeling I’m not going to approve.”

“It is the Templars’ last resort to restore order,” Cullen muttered in explanation to Shepard. “It sanctions the killing of all mages within the Circle.” 

There was no fear in Shepard face as he said those words, merely disbelief; she stared back at Meredith, mouth slightly open, as though the Knight-Commander had gone mad. “There are people dying in the streets, and your first action is one of revenge? What is _wrong_ with you?!”

Meredith’s jaw clenched, ignoring Shepard now and addressing Cullen once more, eyes narrowing to slits. “I have given an order. I will see it carried out. _Now_ ,” she said emphatically, jerking her head towards Shepard, and his heart thundered at her words, shooting Shepard a desperate look. _Run_ , he thought to himself, _just run_ , but she didn’t; she merely looked back at him, eyebrows raised as though she expected him to argue some sense into the Knight-Commander, but how was he supposed to do _that_? She’d clearly made up her mind, and there’d be no changing it - least of all for Shepard.

“I’ll do it,” one of the nearby Templars said. “Gladly.” 

“No,” Meredith barked, one arm shooting out in front of the man to prevent his attack. “The order was for the Knight-Captain.”

She continued to glare at him, and though he knew it was hopeless he felt compelled to try and change her mind. “But she’s said—” he began tentatively, but Meredith cut him off as soon as he’d begun.

“I do not care what she has said! She has shown in her actions that she is not to be trusted.” Still he hesitated, trapped in the abyss between his orders and what he knew was right, and Meredith pounced like a predator on his display of weakness. “Or am I to believe the rumours I’ve been hearing?” she asked, voice low and deadly. Cullen could feel blush creeping onto his cheeks at her insinuation, which was _not_ good, because he needed her to believe him now more than ever.

“Are those the rumours that you’re insane?” Shepard chipped in, and he winced at her words. “Because you probably should believe those ones.”

“How can you possibly think you’re helping right now?!” he yelped, desperate for her not to be so… _her_ , at this point in time.

“I tried to be rational, but that didn’t work,” she retorted, and he groaned at her complete lack of tact.

“Enough of this!” Meredith spat. “Do it, Cullen, or I will.”

He had no doubt she meant that, and she’d probably follow it up by killing him too. What the _fuck_ was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like Meredith was completely out of line; Shepard _was_ involved with the Underground, had killed his fellow Templars, but still the thought of striking her down made him feel sick. He turned to Shepard once more, eyes wide and pleading, desperate for her to _act_ in some way - to run away, to enact whatever crazy plan she was currently formulating in her mind, to just attack him already and force him into retaliation. He readied his sword, bracing himself for her onslaught, but Shepard merely glared at him, and in the next moment her daggers had clattered to the ground, hands on her hips as she stared him down.

“What are you doing?!” he demanded.

“Taking a stand.”

He groaned again, endlessly frustrated by her damn morality; he wouldn’t hesitate in killing her if she fought him, but could he honestly slay her like this? Just for being a mage? “Damnit, Shepard; pick up your weapons and we’ll settle this properly.”

“I’m not going to fight you,” she said fiercely. “I want you to know that if you go through with this, it’s murder.”

That was the core of it; it _was_ murder, no matter how Meredith rationalised it, and that was not why he’d become a Templar. But taking a stand, as she was? That took a bravery he wasn’t sure he had.

“Pick up your weapons, Shepard,” he repeated, a hint of begging in his voice, for he knew that if she did she had a good chance of defeating him, and then she’d have a good chance of being alive, of being able to outrun Meredith and the Rite. But she stood fast, hands at her sides, face set in grim determination. 

“No.”

He shook his head, racking his brains for some plan, some bright idea that could save her. Maybe, just maybe, there was still some middle ground, a way to save her without throwing his life away. A non-fatal injury might work, but she’d have to realise what he was doing, play dead instead of screaming out, and he could hardly base a plan around a hope that she’d keep her mouth shut. But there was something; amongst the poultices and lyrium potions he kept on his belt he had other flasks, poisons and paralysis philtres to subdue escaping mages, and though for once she wasn’t trying to escape maybe it could save her here. Besides, she had her phylactery now; once the philtre wore off she could run far away from the Circle, and nevermore have to worry about Templars.

It briefly crossed his mind that he’d never see her again. But maybe that was for the best.

“So be it,” he said, plucking the potion from his belt, obscuring his colleagues’ view of the flask to conceal the contents. He cracked the flask over his raised sword as he approached Shepard, and she didn’t even take a step backwards; Maker, she didn’t even seem afraid, and did she suspect his plan or was she just convinced he wouldn’t hurt her? He grabbed her shoulder with one hand as with the other he lashed forward with his sword, slicing her flank in exactly the spot he’d been aiming for; deep enough to draw blood, to look from where Meredith was standing as though he’d run her through. He knew it wouldn’t be fatal, but her pained cry when he landed his hit made his gut wrench all the same. He pushed her away at the same time as withdrawing his sword, and she staggered on the spot as she grasped her side, dumbfounded when she withdrew her hand to find it coated with blood; she looked up to him, eyes wide, and for one terrible moment he thought she was going to resort to blood magic after all. But of course she didn’t; her mouth merely opened and closed wordlessly, too shocked to ask the question _how could you_ , before the paralysis philtre set in and her muscles contracted, sending her crashing to the ground in a motionless heap.

It took a moment for him to pull his eyes off of her frozen body, to turn away from the puddle of blood that was gradually forming under her and look at his Knight-Commander once more, her face unreadable as she regarded him. He met her gaze as best he could, refusing to show any sign of guilt or weakness as he desperately hoped his actions would be enough, and after an excruciating moment of silence she nodded at him.

“We’re losing time,” she said simply, not even acknowledging what he’d just done. “Let us get to the Gallows, and quickly.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” he said, sheathing his sickeningly blood-soaked sword once more. Meredith sheathed her own sword as she began to move, stepping over Shepard’s lifeless form with such disdain, such disregard, that for a brief moment Cullen regretted not turning on her - but he’d made his choice, and now there was nothing left to do but follow her, and pray she showed more mercy to whoever else they met along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost deleted the second part of this chapter because it made me too sad. But I left it. Because I enjoy misery. I'M SORRY.


	18. Chapter 18

Shepard had never expected a long life, but out of all the ways she could have died until now, this was probably the most humiliating way to go.

It was a sort of cruel irony, that with all the faith she’d ever placed in humanity, in _people_ \- and all that had been gained because of it - that she finally lost her life because of her unshakable belief that people, in general, were good. But as she lay in her own blood, unable to even blink, she wasn’t sure why she’d ever expected anything else of that _fucking_ Templar. She really hated him, for making her final thoughts one of such disappointment in the human race.

She also hated him for not making a better job of finishing her off. He could have quite easily executed her with a stab to the heart or a headshot; leaving her to bleed out was cowardly, and leaving her paralysed, with an overwhelming sense of helplessness as she awaited her death, was cruel. She could still hear the battle raging on around her, could hear people dying, alone and scared, and there was absolutely _nothing_ she could do about it. She could only listen, as her vision blurred and her mind became foggy, and try in vain to move her stiffened limbs. 

“Shepard?” she was sure she heard a voice call in the distance, but that couldn’t be right; she could dimly recognise it as a woman’s voice, but she didn’t _know_ any women here, least of all any who would want to help her. “Shepard!” the voice called again, more desperate now, and she felt hands on her, pushing her body so she now lay face-up and looking on at what was, in that moment, the most beautiful sight in the world; a terrified-looking Asari in mage robes.

“’Ee-ara?” she managed to croak, somehow forming the smallest of smiles on her frozen lips.

“Shepard!” Liara exclaimed, a small amount of relief breaking through on her face. “By the Goddess, what’s happened to you?!”

She tried to say ‘long story’, but it just came out a garbled string of syllables, and Liara’s face clouded again as she looked her over. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I—it’s okay,” she said, reassuring herself more than Shepard. “I saved one medigel for emergencies - and if now isn’t the time to use it, I don’t know what is.” She rummaged around in her pack, pulling out a familiar sachet, and gently pushed aside the fabric of Shepard’s clothes, tentatively inspecting the wound. “I… well, this isn’t so bad,” she said, a little surprised. “You aren’t run through; it’s just caught your side. Why are you lying here? I’ve seen you walk with worse than this.”

Shepard would have glared if she could; did Liara think she’d just chosen to lay down in the street rather than deal with her injuries? “Ala-is!” was the word she formed, and Liara frowned at her. “ _Ala-sis_!” she repeated, more forcefully, and realisation dawned on Liara’s face.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said. “Some sort of paralysis reagent?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that should wear off soon enough. Do you… still want me to use the medigel?” Liara asked hesitantly, looking at her precious supplies - Shepard had taught her a little too well, it seemed. “One grunt for yes, two for no.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Alright. Here,” she said, quickly plucking some more supplies from her pack and applying a makeshift dressing to the wound, bandaging tightly around her waist to apply pressure to her injury. “The city’s a mess; we need to get to safety. Sorry about this,” she said, gripping her under her arms and pulling her to her feet; Shepard’s knees buckled under the weight of herself but Liara had her, hoisting her up onto her shoulder, and Shepard could feel the faint buzz of Liara’s biotics as she carried her. 

What Liara lacked in brute strength she made up for in sheer grit, and she managed to haul her Commander safely out of the city and to the Wounded Coast before her legs threatened to crumble beneath her. Even then she persevered, and Shepard could practically hear the scream of her muscles as she carried her, with heavy breathing and laboured steps, further along the coast. Shepard would have shouted at her to stop if only she could have formed coherent words, but as it was Liara didn’t rest until they’d reached a cave along the coastline; she dropped Shepard to the floor before sinking down next to her, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow.

“By the Goddess,” Liara said between shaky breaths. “You’re a lot heavier than you look.”

“’anks.”

All in all, it took a little over an hour for Shepard to regain full functionality; gradually she was able to wiggle her toes, then feet, then she was able to push herself up into a sitting position, though doing so felt as draining as fighting a Thresher Maw. Her words were one of the last things to come, and when she could finally speak properly it was with a hoarse voice and stiff tongue.

“We need to get back,” was the first thing she said, and Liara looked over at her friend as though she’d gone insane.

“Why?”

“The city,” she said, keeping it succinct whilst sentences were still a struggle. “We need to help, need to—”

“Shepard; the city is lost,” Liara cut in, placing a hand on Shepard’s forearm. “I’m sorry, but there’s no saving Kirkwall.”

“We can try.”

“You can barely sit up straight; how are you going to save an entire city?”

That was true, but the paralysis potion was wearing off by the minute; surely it was simply a case of walking it off. With a disproportionate amount of effort she hoisted herself up onto her feet; her legs felt like jelly, but she still managed to put her hands on her hips and stare Liara down.

“See?”

“Congratulations; you can stand,” Liara said, sounding distinctly unimpressed; she exhaled slowly through her nose before trying once more to persuade Shepard. “Please, just— sit down and let me have another look at that injury.”

“I’m _fine_ , I just—”

“You’re not fine!” Liara snapped, jumping to her feet too, and Shepard was momentarily taken aback by the anger in her tone. “Goddess, why do you always have to be—” she began, but then cut herself off abruptly as she glared at her feet. When she spoke again it was with a voice that shook with suppressed emotion. “I haven’t seen you in months. I thought you were dead, _again_. And then I find you, and you don’t even care! You don’t ask how I’ve been, you don’t even say hello; all you want to do is want to run off and play the hero!”

The words were like a physical blow to Shepard, knocking all the fight out of her and leaving her guilt clawing at the wall she’d built in front of it. She was right, of course. Here was her friend, who she’d feared lost for so long, and she’d barely looked at her twice; there were people to save, adventures to be had, and all else had paled in comparison to that. Commander Shepard: soldier, hero, shitty friend. They’d probably engraved that on her tombstone back in the Milky Way.

“Hello,” Shepard offered, which was a terrible way of apologising, but it seemed to soften Liara ever so slightly. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been living in a cave,” she said pointedly, nodding in the direction of a tattered bedroll and a worn-out fire.

“You’re an archaeologist; I thought you loved caves.” Liara shook her head as a small, humourless laugh escaped her lips, and Shepard cursed her inability to maintain a serious conversation. “I’m sorry. I know people here must’ve been…”

“Unspeakably cruel?” Liara finished the sentence for her. “You know, it was weeks before anyone even spoke to me before attacking. When he did he wanted to bargain with me for riches like I was some genie from a lamp. Then he tried to set me on fire.”

She didn’t really know what to say that; whatever she had experienced in the Circle surely must have paled in comparison to how Thedas reacted to a blue woman, and she didn’t trust herself not to be glib once more. There was only one way she could think to respond; she stepped forward, arms outstretched, and Liara didn’t hesitate in stepping forward too, ducking to rest her head on her shoulder as they embraced. There was no need for words in that moment; it was enough just to hold each other and to be reassured that the other was real, and that they were finally no longer alone.

“I’m sorry,” Shepard eventually repeated, because there was really nothing else she could offer. “I really have missed you,” she added, just about able to keep the crack out of her voice - but she owed it to Liara to be serious just this once. “I was so worried that I’d never see you again.”

“I missed you too,” Liara mumbled. “And I worried. I know it can’t have been easy for you either in the Circle.”

“Well, it wasn’t a bundle of laughs, but at least… wait,” Shepard paused as she relinquished her grip on her friend, brow furrowing as her brain caught up with Liara’s words. “How do you know I was in the Circle?”

“I met a friend of yours on Sundermount about a month ago. Thankfully he didn’t try to kill me on sight.”

“My friend?” Shepard repeated, baffled. Until tonight there had only been one person in the whole of Thedas she might have counted as such, but then he’d tried to kill her; clearly he didn’t share her sentiment. “You don’t… surely you’re not talking about Cullen?”

“No,” Liara said, and though Shepard wasn’t surprised her heart sank regardless. “His name was Anders.”

“ _Anders_?!” Shepard repeated, unsure what to feel at that revelation. She’d suspected he hadn’t even bothered to look for Liara; the fact that he had ought to have made her feel grateful, but he’d hidden the discovery despite her palpable fear for her friend. Of course, mere hours ago he’d proven himself capable of much worse than a lie of omission. “How did that possessed bastard manage to—no, you know what; let’s do this properly,” Shepard stopped as she realised she was getting too far ahead of herself, and her legs were beginning to shake. With a sigh she sank down onto the ground once more, gesturing for Liara to sit beside her. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”

And so she did. She told her of her escape from the Deep Roads, which had lasted significantly longer than Shepard’s; by her calculation she was already at Wildervale by the time Liara emerged. After that, there were a lot of humans who tried to kill her, none of whom survived their encounter with the Asari. But whilst she could deal with stray soldiers and the ever-changing weather, the thing that really threatened her was the lack of a solid food source. There was only so long she could scavenge from the outskirts of towns, and raiding caravans would just bring unwanted attention; starving, she’d taken a risk, and snuck into the Dalish camp on Sundermount one night. 

She’d been caught by the Dalish in her raid, but Shepard was pleasantly surprised when the story took a turn for the better at that. Apparently whatever suspicion the Dalish had for humans did not extend to Asari, and rather than be scared of the blue woman they were fascinated, inviting her into their camp as a guest and sharing their resources with her. She’d had a brief respite with the elves, learning of their culture and explaining her own to them; they’d also told her, much to Liara’s relief, that Shepard was still alive, though they had no idea where she’d gone after escaping the clutches of some Templar. 

Then Anders had appeared, as he’d accompanied Hawke and the clan’s old First on a mission, claiming to know Shepard and to be working towards her freedom, and that should have been the happy ending right there. But things were never that straightforward. Hawke’s mission had gone south, resulting in a dead Keeper and clan of pissed-off elves who made the fatal error of fighting the Champion in their grief. Liara had survived the madness, barely, and Anders had instructed her to lay low until the time came when he could assist Shepard to freedom. And so he’d left her on the Wounded Coast, alone once more, with regular packages of food and books and the same vague promises he’d made to Shepard about the other’s safety. His last package had come that evening, with a clear, ominous message that Shepard would be free that evening, and that Liara should look for her ‘once the dust settled’. 

“And that’s how I found you,” she finished. “I couldn’t wait, so I headed for Kirkwall as soon as I got the message. I was just trying to figure out how to get into the city discreetly when I saw the explosion; no-one gave me a second glance after that.” She smiled, but Shepard didn’t return it; she’d been growing gradually more uneasy as her story had unfolded, and now her stomach was an awful twist of knots she’d never loosen. Liara’s smiled faltered as she sensed her discomfort. “You seem troubled.”

“I should have come for you,” Shepard mumbled. “You’ve been out here all alone, and I’ve just been fucking around in the Circle. I had a way out of the Gallows; I should have just used it, phylactery be damned.”

“You had no idea where I was,” Liara said soothingly. “Even if you did, you would have led the Templars directly to me.”

“So? We could have fought them. I _should_ have fought them, but all I did was—”

“Shepard,” Liara interrupted her, placing a hand on hers. “I’m fine now. I’m with you.” That still didn’t reassure her; there were few places in the universe less safe than Commander Shepard’s side. “So, what about you?” Liara continued, clearly trying to distract her. “The Dalish said you escaped the Templar who captured you. How did you end up in the Circle?”

“By not killing that _fucking_ Templar the moment I met him,” she grumbled, as Liara arched an eyebrow at her.

“That sounds personal.” Shepard grunted but said nothing, but still Liara persisted. “What happened?”

Shepard groaned, distractedly toying with her braid as she thought back to her first meeting with the Knight-Captain. It seemed like forever ago now; she might have guessed back then that their acquaintance would end with him trying to kill her, but she never would have thought she’d feel so _betrayed_ because of it. “I ran into a Templar who’d been ambushed by Tal-Vashoth along the Wounded Coast, saved his stupid life. Turned out to be the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, and he repaid me by corralling me into the Circle. I mentioned you in passing, and he tricked me into thinking you were being held at the Gallows. I ran directly into his trap.”

“Smart. But catching mages is his job.”

“He was the one who did this to me,” she said severely, indicating to her injured side. “The fucking Knight-Commander ordered my execution, and he barely hesitated. I saved his ass, _twice_ , and all I got for my trouble was yet another scar.”

“Yes, but again, he’s a Templar. He’s just another enemy on a battlefield; why are you so bothered by it?”

“Because I thought he was better than that,” she snapped, surprising even herself with her anger. She groaned again, just to clear the lump in her throat, as she pulled out the phylactery from her breast pocket and glared at it. What a wonderfully empty gesture _that_ had turned out to be.

“You liked him,” Liara surmised.

“He was alright. For a Templar,” she shrugged, and Liara rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, brandishing her phylactery at Liara. “You should have this. In case we get separated again.”

“This… is a phylactery?” Liara asked, inspecting the little glass vial with great interest, and Shepard nodded as Liara took it from her. “Anders said this was why you couldn’t just escape. How did you get it?”

“I got given it.”

“By your Templar friend.”

“He was not my _friend_ ,” Shepard bristled. “Friends don’t stab friends in the back. Or flank.” 

“ _Shepard_ ,” she chastised, in a tone oddly reminiscent of Shepard’s mother. “You haven’t seen your wound properly. I have, and it’s not deep - not at all.”

“What’s your point; that he’s a bad shot?”

“That I don’t think he intended to kill you.”

That gave Shepard pause. She hadn’t given too much thought to the fact that she was still alive; her brushes with death were so frequent that they were almost mundane by this point. But now Liara mentioned it, it was rather surprising that he hadn’t managed to kill her at such short range. She tugged at the fabric of her shirt - she had refused, point blank, to wear mage robes for the past few months - pulling it up so she could get a proper look at her injury. She bit her lower lip as she peeled back Liara’s dressing, skin tender as the bandages tugged at the wound, and it might not have been fatal but it certainly wasn’t great; eight inches long and one deep, blood already clotting to try and knit the skin together. Chakwas could’ve sewn it up in a heartbeat, but without stitches it was going to be damn ugly when it healed.

“He may not have wanted to kill me,” she said slowly, pressing the bandages back down with a wince. “But he left me bleeding out and paralysed in the middle of a burning city. He obviously didn’t care too much about whether I lived.”

“Fine,” Liara sighed. “Be stubborn and angry if you want. But it sounds to me like you ran across the one decent Templar in all of Thedas.”

“Whatever. It’s irrelevant now; I’m never going to see him again, and good riddance,” she said, trying to convince herself that was true, though it sounded weak even to her. Because, in all honesty, she was going to miss him. She hadn’t sought him out all those times in the Circle just for information or to annoy him; she’d done it because - as Liara had seen in an instant - she had liked him, had enjoyed his company. But right now it was easier to be angry with him. The alternative was worrying about his fate in the wreckage of Kirkwall; with the way Meredith had looked at him, fury contorting her into someone that barely seemed human, rioting mages were probably the least of his concerns. “We really should go back,” Shepard mumbled, more to herself than to Liara.

“What do you think you can do there?” Liara asked, but there was no anger in her tone now; her voice was soft, almost pitying, and somehow that was worse.

“I don’t know,” Shepard said, frustrated beyond belief at her lack of options. She couldn’t even walk to the city right now, let alone fight a horde of Templars, and the chaos had been raging for several hours now. But she still wanted to try. “Just… _something_. The Templars ordered some Rite to kill all the mages there - we can’t just let that happen.”

“You can’t save everyone,” Liara said quietly. “We learnt that at Thessia.”

Shepard knew there was no accusation, no resentment, in those words; she only meant to remind of the fact she was human, with human limitations. But they still hit hard. “Thank you, Liara, for reminding me of my abject failures. Feel free to bring up Virmire whilst you’re at it.”

And Tuchanka, and the coup on the Citadel, and the thousands of bodies that had littered the streets of London as they’d fought in their final push. “You know that’s not how I meant it,” Liara said, her voice swimming through the images Shepard’s mind was currently flashing at her. “Thessia and Virmire weren’t your fault, and neither is this.”

“I could have stopped Anders earlier today - I had the opportunity to kill him, but—”

“But you didn’t, because you always give people a chance. And overall, that has saved more lives than not.”

Shepard wasn’t at all convinced by Liara’s math, but she was too tired to argue the point any further; she rubbed her eyes, desperately trying to dislodge the image of fire engulfing Lowtown. “Then what do you suggest, T’Soni?” she asked, forcing herself to look ahead once more.

“Going home.”

 _Home_. It was strange; now she was back with Liara home should have felt closer than ever, but in reality it had never seemed further away. She barely even understood where they were right now; parallel universe was the explanation Shepard had finally settled on, but she wasn’t a scientist and had no idea whether that was actually correct. And if it was, how were they supposed to cross universes? They didn’t even have electricity.

“Great. Any bright ideas as to how?”

“We’ll figure something out. You always figure something out, Shepard,” Liara said with a smile, and the faith she placed in her even now was a little unnerving. “But, first thing’s first - you should rest. Tomorrow we’ll move on. I’ve been doing as much reading as I can, and I think Tevinter might be a good place to start.”

“A land of abominations, slavery and blood magic. Sounds fun.”

“And the best wine in all of Thedas, apparently.”

“Well, if that’s the case, what are we waiting for?”

Liara chuckled, briefly turning from Shepard to root through her small pile of belongings; she pulled out a roughspun blanket which she handed to Shepard, then set about lighting a fire. Shepard pulled the blanket around her shoulders, curling up against the comfiest looking rock in the cave before she finally gave into exhaustion and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed.

That night, she dreamt of a burning city, and of golden curls stained with blood.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump ahoy!
> 
> (Psst - I commissioned the wonderful [olgasartblog](http://olgasartblog.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for some art based on this fanfic - [ check out how pretty it is!](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/160669902965/olgasartblog-commissioned-work-from))

The alarm sounded through Skyhold in the early hours of the morning, and Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan launched himself out of bed, forgoing his armour but grabbing his sword and shield as he looked desperately down at Skyhold’s grounds. It didn’t _look_ as though they were being attacked; there were no running or crying civilians, and the men patrolling the battlements were merely looking at each other curiously. He saw the door of Commander Cullen’s tower burst open, the Commander emerging in much the same state as the Inquisitor was; partially-dressed, armed with sword and shield, and looking ever so slightly bemused. 

There had to be an explanation. He left his room, racing down the stairs two at a time, finding Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine discussing something in urgent tones in the main hall; Leliana was dressed and as alert as he’d ever seen her - he wouldn’t be surprised if the Spymaster didn’t sleep - but Josephine looked - well, _ruffled_ , sleepy eyes and messy hair and the most adorable pyjama set he’d ever seen.

Maker, she was perfect.

“What’s going on here?” the Inquisitor asked as he approached the two women, and Leliana spoke first, rage written across her face.

“Skyhold has been breached.”

“By who?” It was Cullen who spoke, running through the hall to join them. “I see no forces outside the walls, and—”

“It was not an army; it was a woman,” she cut him off. “I caught her in the rookery, rifling through my reports.”

“So we have her?” Cullen asked, and Leliana’s face darkened.

“No. She ran.”

“How did she get away?” Trevelyan asked, and he only meant it as an innocent question, but Leliana’s eyes flashed in response and he felt as though he were withering under her glare.

“It was a mage - one of the Venatori, I can only assume. She caught me off-guard. Threw me into a wall when I approached.”

“I’m sure the Inquisitor did not mean to imply—” Josephine, ever the diplomat, began, but one look from Leliana silenced her.

“Did she take anything?” Cullen asked, looking grave, and Leliana nodded.

“I have not done a full inventory of my documents, but she appears to have left with sensitive information on both Corypheus and my spies. This cannot fall into his hands; Commander, we must dispatch your forces to apprehend this woman.”

“Did you get a good look at her?” Cullen asked, and Leliana nodded. “Good. Talk to Sera - see if she can draw something vaguely useful for once, and get her to come up with a portrait of this woman. I will assemble a small vanguard to leave now. We will meet in the War Room in an hour, and plan our move then. Ah— if you agree, Inquisitor,” he added awkwardly, looking at the Inquisitor as though he was worried he’d crossed a line. Trevelyan didn’t blame him; he was barely used to the title himself.

“Good idea,” he agreed. “I’ll make myself a bit more presentable in the meantime.”

\---

Cullen spent the next hour rousing his men and putting them to work. He quickly assembled a small team to comb the nearby mountains, on the lookout for a lone mage woman, but he knew it would largely be fruitless; she already had a head-start on them, and could’ve gone in any direction once leaving Skyhold. His latest intel seemed to indicate Corypheus was basing his operations in the west though, and so he advised them to start in that direction. The rest of his men he designated into groups no less than five, placing them on standby to be dispatched as soon as Sera had finished her reconstruction of their thief.

By the time he arrived in the War Room, the rest of the group were already there; they were animatedly discussing the situation over the portrait Sera had drawn, but fell silent immediately on seeing him enter.

“How do you propose we move, Commander?” the Inquisitor asked as Cullen approached the table.

“I recommend eight strike groups to leave Skyhold in the directions of an eight-point compass. I have already begun assembling my men; on my word they can…”

He glanced down at the portrait briefly, then did a double take, rapidly looking back at it and realising his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. _It couldn’t be_. He picked up the picture hesitantly, as though it might disintegrate to dust in his hands, eyes scanning the features of their intruder. Dark eyes, with a deep scar through one; freckles which made her seem younger and more innocent than she was, full lips curved into a hint of a smile. And long plaited hair, the one coloured part of the picture, which Sera seemed to have enthusiastically painted in a vibrant red; a red which was, if he remembered correctly, several times brighter than her actual hair.

 _If_ it was her, which it _couldn’t_ be; she was dead, dragged off by a demon for some horror that haunted his dreams, all because he’d been too much of a coward to really help her. But Maker, it was an uncanny resemblance.

“You’re smiling, Cullen. It’s unnerving.” The Inquisitor’s voice woke him from his reverie; he looked up at the group, speechless for a second as they regarded him with expressions ranging from curiosity to concern. He turned to Leliana, clearing his throat and desperately trying to speak with a level voice.

“Is this her? The woman who came here tonight?” Leliana nodded. “Are you _sure_?” he asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his tones as he sought confirmation from her. “Small, light on her feet, glows blue when she fights?”

“You know her?” the Inquisitor asked curiously as Leliana nodded to all of his points.

“I—I did,” he assented, and they continued to look at him as he sifted through his thoughts and memories to try and find a way to explain _Shepard_. “She was a mage in the Kirkwall Circle. Shepard. She claimed to be a Commander and refused to tell us her first name,” he said, a small smile creeping to his lips involuntarily at the memory. “She was… a good woman. I thought she was dead,” he said, more to himself than the rest of the group, looking back at the picture with gut-wrenching guilt. _I thought I’d killed her_. His blow wasn’t fatal, he _knew_ it wasn’t, but he hadn’t thought use of the paralysis philtre through; she was always so self-assured that he’d forgotten, in leaving her as he had, that she could be vulnerable. A desire demon, the residents of Lowtown had told him afterwards, zoning in like a predator on a weakened mage and claiming her for its own. How had she managed to escape such a fate?

“Well, she’s not dead, and she’s working for the Venatori,” Leliana said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No,” Cullen shook his head fiercely. “Whatever her reasons for coming here tonight, I do not believe she would assist Corypheus. Not out of choice, at any rate.”

Leliana scoffed. “Cullen, she _attacked_ me.”

“If she’d attacked you properly, you’d be dead,” he said firmly, continuing when she made a disparaging noise in the back of her throat. “Leliana, this woman is one of the strongest mages I have ever met; she quite easily could have killed you. She is also infuriatingly moral, which is why she did not.”

“And the documents she stole?” Leliana continued to argue with him. “Why would an upstanding little mage take vital information from the one force for good in Thedas?”

“I do not know,” he reluctantly admitted. “But I am sure her intentions would be good.”

“You seem to have an awfully high opinion of her,” the Inquisitor noted. 

“Indeed,” added Josephine. “I did not think Templar and mages were permitted to be friends.”

“She was not my friend,” Cullen said quickly; a knee-jerk reaction he’d learnt many years ago. Mages and Templars were not _friends_ , and she was not his, no matter how frequently they had spoken or how genial their conversations had been. She had always been his ward – _prisoner_ , she would no doubt say; there was no room for friendliness there. “But I respected her. That is more important than friendship in the Circle.”

“I suppose this changes your suggestion,” the Inquisitor commented, and Cullen frowned for a moment before realising what he was referring to. He glanced down at the portrait once more, which might as well have said WANTED across the top.

Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t hunted her before.

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Shepard has a head start, and it will not be easy to find her. Without being sure of her direction, I do not believe any men dispatched from Skyhold will be able to locate her. She will not follow any main roads, and can go without food and sleep for days at a time. Even if we somehow stumbled upon her trail, catching her would not be a trivial matter.”

“So it’s hopeless,” Leliana muttered.

“Not necessarily. If she does not think she is being followed, she will grow cocky, and then she will slip up. I suggest circulating this image to Leliana’s scouts, and have them search for her discreetly.”

“How can you be so sure of her movements?” Josephine asked.

“It was I who brought her to the Gallows,” he told her, then adding as an aside, “and it was not an easy task.”

“And if my scouts find her?”

“They should be under strict orders not to engage,” Cullen continued. “One on one, the only hope of subduing her would be with a Templar, and even then I would not wish to send a single man. I would instead suggest the Inquisitor himself approach her, and talk her round to our cause.”

“This is not a recruitment drive, Cullen!” Leliana bristled, apparently having taken Shepard’s intrusion as a personal slight. “She has stolen documents of ours which need to be recovered. She would be lucky if the Inquisitor did not take her head for it.”

“You cannot execute a woman for simply bruising your pride!” Cullen snapped, and Leliana raised her eyebrows, surprised enough by his outburst to forget to hide her reaction. He exhaled, turning once more to the Inquisitor and appealing directly to him. “If nothing else, seeking to kill Shepard for this would be a monumental waste of talent. She would be an asset to the Inquisition, however you chose to use her.”

“She did steal from us,” the Inquisitor pointed out. “She obviously doesn’t want to work with us, or she could’ve just petitioned us for the information.”

“Perhaps she does not know enough about the Inquisition,” Cullen persisted. “Perhaps she doesn’t trust us. I do not know. But if you explained our goals, and showed her our intentions are good, I am sure she would jump at the opportunity to join us.”

The Inquisitor frowned at him, trying to read his face for some hint of information that he felt Cullen was keeping back. “No offence, Cullen, but I’m a little surprised that you’re putting forward such a strong case for a mage. Exactly how well did you two know each other?”

“Hardly at all,” he admitted. “I’m not sure one word she ever said to me about herself was true. But I know what I have seen her do; when the Chantry at Kirkwall fell she could have run, but her first instinct was to stay and help the people of the city. She even approached Meredith and proposed an alliance to try and save civilians.”

“I can’t imagine that offer was met well,” said Trevelyan.

“Hence why I thought she was dead,” Cullen muttered darkly. “But after what I have seen, I cannot help but admire her. She is a good woman,” he repeated. “Even if she is… a little eccentric.”

The Inquisitor would see for himself in due course what he meant by that - or at least, Cullen hoped he would. Maker, Cullen _wanted_ her to join them; she could train other mages, undertake missions, assist the Inquisitor out in the field. But mostly, he just wanted to talk to her again; he wanted to know how she’d survived, where she’d been all this time, whether she hated him for what happened in Kirkwall. And he wanted to hear those things without constantly regulating himself and looking over his shoulder, without the fear that his colleagues would discover that he _enjoyed_ her stories or that he even, probably, liked her.

“Leliana? Josephine? Any other suggestions?” the Inquisitor asked, turning towards the women.

“No, Inquisitor,” Josephine said.

“Me neither,” Leliana said begrudgingly. “This seems a particularly important matter to the Commander; I would not wish to step on his toes. But I may challenge his mage friend to a duel if she joins us.”

“I would recommend against that,” Cullen said with a smirk.

“We will see,” Leliana retorted coldly, and Cullen’s smirk widened. That was a fight he’d like to see.

\---

“So you’re telling me these documents are useless,” Shepard surmised, flopping back on her bedroll with a groan as Liara scoured the documents she’d pilfered.

“Well, if we were looking to set me up as the Shadow Broker of Thedas they’d be very useful; you’ve managed to pick up the locations of half their spy network. But there’s very little of relevance to us - except for the fact that Corypheus is ‘out west’.”

“Which we knew already.” Shepard sighed, reaching over and picking up a sheaf of paper to look at disappointedly. Raiding the Inquisition for information had been a big risk, and one which hadn’t paid off. If she’d had more time she might have been able to gather something useful, but when she’d been interrupted by some hooded rogue she’d just grabbed whatever papers were nearest to her before fleeing. Now they had no more information than before, and probably had a pissed-off religious army after them.

“You’ll have to go back,” Liara said, and Shepard vehemently shook her head.

“No way. They’ll be waiting for me.”

“So? You can fight them.”

“I don’t want to fight them,” she persisted. “I don’t see why we don’t just petition them directly—”

“We’ve been through this,” Liara interrupted, and it looked as if she were making a great effort not to start an argument. All they did these days was argue. “They’re in the pocket of the Chantry, their leader claims to be sent by the Maker, they have both the Left and Right Hand of the Divine in their number, and to top it all off I hear their army is led by a Templar. Even if they didn’t kill us on the spot, how do you think they’ll react when we tell them we want to find Corypheus not to kill him, but to raid his research and find a way home?”

“They’ll probably say it’s a shit plan, which I would agree with.”

“As you’ve said. Repeatedly.” Liara sighed, rubbing her tired brow with one hand. “We should just start moving west.”

“Why can’t we take a break?” Shepard said, pushing herself up to sit once more. “We’ve barely seen Ferelden beyond these old forts,” she said, indicating to the old ruin they’d taken refuge in for the time being. “I wanted to check out Amaranthine; apparently—”

Liara cut her off with a long groan, putting her head in her hands. “Shepard, you are _killing me_.”

“Why?” Shepard bristled, suddenly annoyed. “Why can’t you make the best of a bad situation and just enjoy yourself for once?”

“ _Enjoy_ —?” Liara repeated, looking as Shepard as though she’d lost her mind. “What is there to enjoy about this place? I am trying to get us home, and for the last three years you’ve treated this like an extended vacation!”

That, right there, was the root of all their problems. Three years on and Liara was still determined to find a route back to the Milky Way, though Shepard had long since given up on their world. They were wasting their time - wasting their lives - searching for some miracle passageway that was unlikely to even exist, and they were ignoring the wonders of the world in which they had found themselves in the process. Tevinter and Nevarra and Rivain had all been useless in their search for home, but they’d still been fascinating; they’d bargained with magisters and debated with Mortalitasi and asked Seers for guidance on their future, and though they never got the answers they wanted Shepard had enjoyed every moment of it. It was harder for Liara, she recognised that; people tended to have two reactions to her - run or kill - and she had to cover up every inch of blue skin with heavy plate armour, helmet and all, just to walk around unstabbed. But she _could_ walk around, could experience the same things as Shepard, albeit with an inch of metal between her and the world. In Tevinter she’d even been unarmoured, face on show to the world without fear, although magisters had kept offering Shepard gold for her ‘tame demon’. But whilst Shepard enjoyed the adventure, each fresh attack and fruitless lead had just frustrated Liara, and resentment had brewed between the pair, so insidiously that Shepard hadn’t realised anything was wrong at first. 

The difference was that Liara had a home back in the Milky Way. The first thing she would do would be to set up shop on Thessia, reprising her role as the Shadow Broker to help to rebuild her home planet. What did Shepard have? Her family were buried on Mindoir, the only man she’d ever loved was long dead, and Earth had never been anything more than an Alliance training camp to her. She had a few friends left, those who hadn’t been her core crew since rejoining the Alliance; Wrex would be on Tuchanka, Jack would be swearing somewhere, Samara would be fighting injustice in some remote corner of the galaxy. But she was only on the periphery of their lives; to them her return would be a brief pause for celebration, a welcome distraction from whatever important missions they were running now. Those she was closest to - Garrus, Tali, Ash, Joker - they’d been on the Normandy, the only home she’d known in her entire adult life and the one she’d condemned to destruction. Now her home was by the side of the one friend she had left, and she was happy with that. But Liara wasn’t.

“What if we can’t get home,” Shepard started gently, “and we’re letting this wonderful world pass us by?”

“Thessia is wonderful. Earth is wonderful. A medieval land without the extranet or indoor plumbing is a nightmare. Wouldn’t you rather _try_ to see our friends again?”

Shepard grit her teeth, refusing to be drawn into that discussion. She often said things like this, clearly in denial about the fate of the Normandy, and Shepard’s heart was too heavy to voice the truth. “Of course I would want to see them again, but we’ve been at this for three years with no joy. I think we should face the facts.”

Liara shook her head. “It’s easy for you to give in. You can at least walk down the street without someone trying to stab you.”

“I’m not giving in,” Shepard argued, “but I can’t spend my entire life on a wild goose chase! I need to do something other than hang out in caves and fight passers-by!” She realised too late that she was shouting, and that Liara was looking furious; she took a deep breath, trying to force calm onto the discussion once more. ”We need to find a place to belong. Yes, strangers are going to stab you on sight, but if we make friends—”

“Who is going to want to make friends with us?!” _With me_ , was what Liara really meant, and they both knew it, but still Shepard persisted.

“We could form a merc band! Take in a load of misfits and travel Thedas fighting crime for money. We get more protection for you and more people to talk to.” Liara didn’t reply to that; she just scrunched up her face, screwing her eyes tightly shut as though hoping that when she opened them she’d be back on the Normandy. Shepard sighed, sensing the conversation had hit a dead end; they both needed space, and she began to gather up her makeshift set of animal traps and knives as an excuse to leave. “I’ll go catch some dinner. I’ll—”

“I think we should separate.”

The words were quiet, muffled in Liara’s hands, but there was no mistaking them; Shepard swivelled on the spot, dropping her equipment and looking wide-eyed at her friend. With one look she could tell this wasn’t a heated declaration based in anger and frustration; Liara looked sad, resigned, and it was painfully clear she’d been thinking this for a long time.

“You can’t. It’s not safe.”

“I can look after myself,” Liara said, also rising to her feet. “We can’t keep going on like this. Don’t you see? If we do we’re just going to start…” Liara trailed off, gesturing vaguely instead of saying _despising each other_ , and offering Shepard a small smile. “It’s fine, Shepard. I think this will be good for us.”

“How? How can this possibly be good for us?” Shepard demanded, equal parts hurt by Liara’s suggestion and infuriated by how calm she was being about it.

“We’re only holding each other back. If we separate for a while I can look for leads without distractions and you… well, you can do whatever it is that you need to do.” Liara turned away from her, bustling about with the few belongings she’d gathered over the years and putting them neatly into her pack, and Shepard’s mind ran through the thousands of things she can say to try and find the correct one to make her stay. 

“But… you’re all I have,” was what she settled on in the end, which was weak and selfish but at least it was honest.

“And you will always have me,” Liara replied, matter-of-fact, not even turning back to face Shepard as she packed. “But a hundred years from now I won’t have you, and I cannot spend my lifetime alone in this place.”

Shepard had never considered that; to her things didn’t matter as long as she was with her friend, but she’d forgotten that, for Liara, Shepard’s presence in her life would only ever be fleeting. It didn’t make Liara’s efforts any less futile, but it went some way to explaining her desperation to get home.

“Liara, please—” she began once more, but Liara cut her off with the raise of her hand.

“I will send word once I’ve found something. And I can find you at any time; I have your phylactery, remember?” She offered her another smile, one which tried to be reassuring, but Shepard didn’t return it; she merely glared back at her, arms folded across her chest, and Liara’s smile flickered. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

“There’s no need to pretend you care what I think anymore,” Shepard returned bitterly, and the hit landed; Liara’s poise flickered for a moment, allowing a sliver of pain to flicker through. Good, Shepard thought viciously. She deserved to hurt just as much as Shepard did.

“Shepard, I—” Liara began, but shook her head to stop herself, instead placing a hand on Shepard’s arm. “I will see you soon. I promise.”

Maybe there was a moment there for Shepard to speak, to give one final impassioned plea for Liara to stay with her, to travel with her and have fun rather than continue this extended misery tour they’d found themselves on. But she didn’t take it, and as Liara dropped her hand and swept from the ruin Shepard refused to watch her go; instead she stood in the same spot, glaring at the ground, until Liara’s footsteps had faded and she was all alone once more.

\---

It was almost three weeks before Leliana’s scouts had anything to report on Shepard, and knowing the extent of the Spymaster’s network Cullen couldn’t help but be impressed by her ability to avoid detection for so long.

“She’s in the Hinterlands,” Leliana said. “Not far from Calenhad’s Foothold. She appears to be following the path of a group of Venatori seen in the area not long ago,” she added, her beady eye trained on Cullen, who ignored the insinuation in her words. Whatever the Spymaster wanted to think, she didn’t know Shepard; if nothing else, the Venatori would likely be too _serious_ for her.

“Cullen, you know her best,” the Inquisitor spoke now. “How do you recommend we approach her?”

“Openly. She will not attack you unless provoked; she is more likely to run. I would suggest taking Cassandra with you for her Seeker abilities, and bringing a mage along might inspire some trust. I also suspect she would get along well with Sera,” he muttered, thinking of the unfortunate state of his top desk drawer. Defacing his reports with phallic doodles was exactly the sort of thing Shepard would find hilarious. “The choice, however, is yours.”

Trevelyan nodded. “I will assemble the group and arrange to leave Skyhold as soon as possible. If that is everything?”

There were no further matters to discuss; Josephine and Leliana quickly swept from the room, but Cullen hung back, hoping to catch the Inquisitor alone. Trevelyan seemed to notice Cullen’s hesitation, and allowed the door to close behind the women before addressing him.

“Is there something else, Cullen?”

“I… yes,” Cullen nodded, trying to summon up the same forthrightness that he used with his men. “Are you planning to leave today?” Trevelyan nodded. “Then… I would request to join you, if you would permit it.”

“Do you think that necessary?” the Inquisitor asked. 

“Probably not,” Cullen admitted. “But I would like to be there, when you find her.”

“I get the sense there’s something you’re not telling me,” the Inquisitor frowned, folding his arms over his chest. Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. It ought to be easy, to describe the relationship between Templar and mage, but nothing about Shepard was simple. She was simultaneously the most infuriating mage in the Gallows, and the one he liked the most; overconfident and brash but also well-meaning, vibrant and _funny_. She might have gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but nothing had ever been dull when Shepard was involved.

“I owe Shepard a great deal,” he settled on in the end. “Most of all, an apology. She saved my life on more than one occasion, and I… I have not always treated her with the same kindness that she showed me. If she ran when you confronted her, and we lost her, I would regret never having the opportunity to tell her that.”

He didn’t look completely satisfied by that answer, but nodded anyway. “Alright; you’ve made your case. I look forward to fighting with you in the field, Commander.”

“Likewise, Inquisitor,” he replied, allowing himself a small smile. “I shall make preparations at once.”


	20. Chapter 20

Shepard’s life had been punctuated by stretches of solitude. After the attack on Mindoir she’d been utterly alone in the universe, and then, as soon as she’d clawed back some semblance of belonging, it was ripped from her once more by the Thresher Maws on Akuze. Her crew were taken from her, thrice; once after the Collector attack on the SR-1, again when she found herself locked away on an Alliance brig, and finally at the end, though then they weren’t taken so much as given away. Sometimes it seemed as though those moments of companionship were respite, brief periods of relief from the loneliness that often felt like her destiny. Still, that didn’t mean she was used to being alone. In fact she despised it; she _needed_ other people, needed friendship and camaraderie and distraction from memories which threatened to overwhelm her in the silence. But most of all, she just needed Liara. Probably more than Liara needed her.

She of course didn’t realise this until the morning after Liara’s departure, once her head had cooled and she could look at things objectively again. As Shepard saw it, there was only one option; if Liara planned to move on Corypheus, Shepard was going to have to do the same. She still suspected it would be futile in their search for home, but the effort would at least endear her to her friend once more; besides, she didn’t like the thought of Liara going after him alone. But ‘out west’ was still hopelessly vague, and she needed a more solid lead to help her on her quest.

That was how, a few weeks later, she found herself holed up in an old fort with a member of the Venatori shackled to the wall. Capturing him had been easy enough - it was a simple case of slaying a group of them but keeping one alive - but he was proving frustratingly resistant to her interrogation; long gone were the days when just invoking her title of Spectre made people start blabbing. If Liara had been with her, they could have played Good Cop Bad Cop, but as it was, Shepard was making do with just one half of that routine.

“How about this,” Shepard began with a fresh tactic, toying with one of her daggers as she observed him. She hadn’t injured him, yet, but the threat had definitely been established. “You tell me where your boss is hiding out, and I won’t cut off each of your digits in painfully slow succession.”

“You expect me to betray the Elder One for _you_?” the Venatori spat.

“I expect you to try and save your own pitiful life,” Shepard growled, shoving his shoulder roughly. “I won’t ask again: _tell me where your base is_.”

He looked at her for a long moment, trying to divine whether her threats were empty or not, before letting out a single, sharp bark of a laugh. “You won’t hurt me. You don’t have the guts.”

“Have it your way,” she shrugged, before allowing her biotic energy to flow. She pinpointed a small, focused Throw directly at his neck; he pressed up against the wall, grasping at the invisible chokehold and gasping for air. She let him flounder just long enough for his eyes to roll up into his head before she released him; he collapsed against his chains, gulping down air.

“You bitch,” he forced out between desperate breaths. “When I— the Elder One—”

“The ‘Elder One’ doesn’t even know your name. Even if he knew you were here, do you really think he’d come and help you? You are an insignificant insect, and unless you are careful I will crush you under my boot. Now start _fucking_ talking!”

“I’d do what she says,” a man’s voice sounded behind her. “She looks pretty angry.” Shepard turned rapidly, raising her daggers at two figures - a human man and a female elf - standing in the doorway of the room. The man who had spoken looked distinctly out of place in the old ruin; he was young and well-groomed, beard closely clipped and brown hair neatly combed back from his face, holding himself with a poise that implied a certain amount of status. His armour indicated the same, embellished with suspiciously religious-looking insignia, though Shepard couldn’t quite place the emblem. Some young noble out looking for adventure, probably, though his companion was somewhat unusual; an elf with a mismatched patchwork outfit and a haphazard haircut, who was regarding Shepard with far more suspicion than her counterpart.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Shepard demanded, stalking towards them; the elf raised her bow and arrow, training it on Shepard, but the man waved his hand to stop his companion’s attack.

“I’m the Inquisitor,” he said simply. “I believe you have something of mine.”

“Oh, _shit_.” She thought she’d been careful; obviously she’d been caught at their fortress, but for weeks she’d stayed hidden amongst trees and caves, avoiding any people as best she could. She knew the Inquisition’s reach was expanding quickly, but never thought for one second it would be good enough to find her.

“Indeed,” the Inquisitor replied. “Now, I’m hoping to settle this amicably. I understand—”

“Heads up!” the elf next to him cried out, raising her bow and firing. The arrow whizzed over Shepard’s shoulder, and she spun around to watch its path; it landed with a sickening _squelch_ in the Venatori’s skull, though not quickly enough to stop him from the movement he had been making. He seemed to have thrown a rune, or a contraption of some sort, into the middle of the room, and now the ground was shaking, the floor underneath them cracking; the very building, which seemed so sturdy and defensible when Shepard picked it, was now quivering from whatever shockwaves the Venatori’s device had produced.

“Let’s go!” the Inquisitor said; the elf didn’t need telling twice, already racing from the room, but Shepard hesitated at the distinct lack of choice. Sensing her reticence, he put his hand out to her, a gesture of camaraderie that pushed her into her decision; she ran, darting out of the room and following the elf as best as she could on the trembling ground.

They had several floors to make their way through, and their path wasn’t looking good; the first staircase they came across was already crumbling, and they’d half-descended the second set when they were met by a pair of Rage demons. 

“Piss it!” the elf shouted, firing several arrows in quick succession at the monsters. “Demons, Inky!”

“I’m on it!” Shepard called, pushing past her; in the last few months since the Rifts had opened she’d become pretty good at fighting demons. Step, step, and _charge_ , connect directly with the first and circle to impale the second from behind, and they were both piles of ash before her biotics had even cooled down; she allowed herself a moment to wink at the Inquisitor before resuming the pace out of the old fort.

“We need to regroup with the others,” she heard the Inquisitor say from behind her. “Whatever that Venatori did must’ve opened a Rift; we need to find it and close it.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Shepard demanded. “I’ve studied these Rifts, and there isn’t—” she trailed off as the Inquisitor raised his hand, showing a shimmering, green mark across the palm that mirrored the Rifts she had seen. That was… interesting. The reports she’d heard of the Inquisitor made him sound like the puppet of just another organisation trying to gain power in a broken world, manipulating the masses through tales of saviour and divinity. But if this mark allowed him to close Rifts… well, then she supposed he wasn’t entirely useless. “Alright. Let’s get cracking, then.”

The next floor was worse than the previous for demons; shades abounded amongst rage and fear, and a small part of Shepard was glad the Inquisitor had gotten there when he did, because even she would struggle to defeat all of these herself. The Inquisitor and his companion were also fairly talented in battle; the elf used a bow and arrow with alarming precision, whilst the Inquisitor favoured a sword and shield, and combined with Shepard’s biotics they made for a rather good team.

“There they are!” the Inquisitor called as three figures ran round a corner ahead of them, but Shepard wasn’t paying any attention to them; her attention was focused on the large, looming monster descending on them from the opposite end of the corridor. 

“Pride demon!” Shepard called, a grin erupting across her face. This was exactly the opportunity she’d been waiting for; she’d wanted to practice her Charge on these demons since she’d first laid eyes upon one, but without a squad to back her up she had until this point played it safe. “I’m on it!”

“Shepard, don’t—!” she heard an oddly familiar voice call as her biotics surged, and she fleetingly noted it was strange for someone here to know her name. But that didn’t matter now; she needed to focus. She lowered her head, daggers in front of her as she took one pace forward, legs angled as though she was a runner at the starting blocks, and then she Charged, the room blurring around her as she zoned in on the demon, connecting with it with a resounding _bang_.

The collision did not go as well as she hoped.

Though her daggers landed hits to its flanks the demon remained upright, rooted to the spot like a tree; Shepard ricocheted off of it, careening backwards across the floor and smashing into a nearby wall. The demon howled wildly as it approached her, readying itself for its own hit, and Shepard grasped around for her daggers, head spinning from her impact. She just managed to roll out of the way as the demon lashed out with its lightning whips, waving its hand as though trying to dismiss an annoying insect as arrows struck its torso. She managed, somehow, to wind her fingers round the pommel of her dagger, slicing out at its heel with one quick motion, and it cried out again, kicking out at her and connecting hard against her side. Pain reverberated through her body and she gasped, winded and desperately trying to claw in some oxygen as the demon bore down on her.

Oh, she was _fucked_ , and the Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen. She really ought to have chosen better spotters.

The demon drew back a large, balled fist, preparing to strike her again, and Shepard desperately summoned her biotics to form a shield around her. She braced herself for impact as something red darted in front of her; she squinted, trying to force herself to see straight through the pain and blue glow of her own powers, and realised it was not a something but a someone, shielding her from the demon’s attack with their body and shield. The demon’s fist connected with the shield with a sickening thud, but the person held fast against the impact, throwing one hand behind them to brace themselves over Shepard against the wall. She could tell it wasn’t the Inquisitor; it was a blond man, tall and well-built, obviously another one of the Inquisitor’s companions and—

And then he turned his head, glancing down at Shepard, and even with the few additions that time had left - a scar to his lip, a few more wrinkles around the eyes - she recognised the face instantly. It was hard to forget the face of someone who’d stabbed you and left you for dead. If she’d had more power in her, she might have stabbed him back in that moment, but she felt utterly drained; all she could do was gawk at him and utter one sentence.

“Oh, you are _fucking_ kidding me.”

“ _Move_!” Cullen barked at her, and she weakly scrambled to her feet, using the wall to support her as her legs trembled. She was still dizzy, but tried her best to focus on the rest of the action; for the first time she noticed a mage, rapidly shooting fireballs as Cullen distracted the demon’s attention, and another woman who was making short work of the lesser demons in the room. For a moment the Inquisitor was nowhere to be found, but then a door shot open and he hurtled through.

“The Rift’s outside!” he Inquisitor called. “We need to lure it down! Quickly!”

His companions didn’t need telling twice; the two women quickly followed him, and the mage shot a wall of ice at the Pride demon before running after them too. Shepard forced one leg in front of the other as best she could, but she knew it was pathetic; she heard a growl from behind her, and though she was expecting another blow from the demon the next thing she felt was a strong arm around her waist, supportive but painful on her injuries as Cullen half-dragged her down the stairs.

“Let go, you’re hurting me!” she argued, half-heartedly trying to worm out of his grip, though he held her tightly to him.

“You hurt yourself charging a Pride demon!” he shot back. “Maker’s breath, Shepard!”

“I was trying to see if I could knock it down!”

“Well, you can’t! What a surprise!”

Oh, she’d show him; she’d knock _him_ down the first opportunity she got, but right now she did really need to focus on trying to run away from the demon she could hear following close behind them. They managed to reach the outer door without the demon catching them, throwing themselves outside and running as far away from the building as they could, which was crumbling to pieces before their eyes and appeared close to collapse. And there was the Rift, she saw now; looming over them, sputtering green, surrounded by half a dozen more demons, and the Inquisitor stuck his hand up in the air. She watched, almost in awe, as a thin thread of green light emerged from his hand, connecting to the Rift; after a few moments the Inquisitor pulled away and the Rift erupted, shooting out shockwaves of its own which killed the lesser demons straight and sent the Pride demon behind them howling in agony.

“Now, Dorian!” the Inquisitor called, and the mage made his move; he charged up a fireball between his hands and then let it free, hurling it towards the demon who erupted into flames. The Inquisitor used his Mark again, and with the second connection the demon was scattered to the winds in ash, and the Rift closed, not even a scarred sliver of green left in the sky.

She _really_ wished she could do fire.

She felt the arm around her waist disappear, which she didn’t even realise had still been there, and she teetered on the spot though managed to stay upright. Cullen moved to stand in front of her, brow creased as he inspected her appearance, and she knew she looked a state; her hair was a matted mess she’d never be able to brush out, her clothes were stained with blood and dirt, and she hadn’t bathed in weeks. In contrast, Cullen looked _good_. She’d always thought he’d looked a little sickly in Kirkwall, gaunt and pallid and obviously sleep-deprived, and his armour had always seemed slightly too big for him. But he’d fleshed out remarkably well since then; his cheeks were fuller, eyes brighter, skin healthier, and though the dark circles still lingered under his eyes they’d faded, just a little. Apparently he’d discovered hair products too, that mass of blond curls now meticulously slicked back, and even his new lip scar worked for him. It was maddening.

“Are you okay?” Cullen asked, almost as if he was concerned about her. “You took a bad—”

Cullen didn’t manage to finish the end of his sentence; he’d made her far too angry to let him continue. She couldn’t let him speak to her like this, pretend he was actually worried, act as though he cared about her wellbeing; not when the last time she’d seen him he’d shown exactly zero compassion towards her. She took a step towards him, and with all the force that she could muster - which was unfortunately not enough, in her current state - she raised a clenched fist and punched him straight in the face.

He reeled backwards, eyes screwed tight and hands clasping at his face as blood trickled from his nose, and a din erupted around her, each person acting by themselves to protect him; the mage Dorian cast a shield in front of Cullen whilst the Inquisitor stepped between the pair, and she felt the tips of both an arrow and a sword press into her neck.

“It’s alright,” Cullen said, waving for them to stand down, though not one of them did. “Damnit, Shepard!” he exclaimed, prodding his nose and wincing. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”

“What do you think is wrong with me, _Knight-Captain_?!” she practically spat his title, trying to step around the Inquisitor to better confront him. “You tried to kill me!”

“I saved your life!”

If she could’ve made her way past his layers of protection she probably would have hit him again for that; firstly, she could’ve gotten away from the demon herself, and secondly that hardly made up for what he’d done before. “Oh, as if manhandling me away from a demon excuses you for what you did at Kirkwall—”

“I’m _talking_ about Kirkwall!”

“Wha—in what delusional alternate reality of yours did that happen?!” she spluttered. “You _stabbed_ me!”

“I barely grazed you,” he said, rolling his eyes, and she hoped the gesture hurt his injured face.

“Does this look like a graze to you?!” she demanded, hands grasping at the hem of her shirt, untucking it from her trousers and yanking it up to her midriff to display to him the long, ugly scar scored along her flank. The scar _he’d_ given her. She saw him blanch as his eyes landed on the old injury, jaw tightening and hands clenching into fists, and some of her anger evaporated at seeing him obviously unnerved by what he’d done to her.

“That is… deeper than I intended,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away from the scar to look at her face once more. “I am so sorry, Shepard. But… I had to – Knight-Commander Meredith ordered me to kill you—”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to follow through!”

“I—I didn’t!” he stammered, eyes widening as though the thought of that truly troubled him. “I just wanted to make it look as though I had – if I had wanted to kill you, you’d be dead!”

“ _Pffft_ ,” was her response, folding her arms across her chest, because she highly doubted he had the skill to properly injure her in an actual fight. He looked downhearted at her reaction, eyes falling to the ground as he tried to formulate his own response.

“Shepard…” Cullen began, but it seemed as though he didn’t quite know what to say. He groaned at his ineloquence, rubbing the back of his neck before starting again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But I could see no other way. I thought if I just made it _look_ like… I never wanted to hurt you, let alone kill you; please believe me.” 

She desperately did want to believe that; she’d truly liked Cullen, found it endearing when he was awkward and entertaining when he was gruff and strict. But she had realised too late just how deep-set his Templar beliefs were, not knowing how firm they were until she was bleeding out on the ground, and not knowing how long he’d been that way until she’d read _The Tale of the Champion_. Yes, he’d turned on Meredith in the end, but not for her. Not for a ‘mage’.

The silence dragged, Shepard merely glaring at Cullen as he looked at his feet, and the Inquisitor spoke up instead. “So, are we good here?”

“We are not _good_ ,” Shepard said quickly, frown deepening. “But I’m not going to attack him, if that’s what you’re worried about. At least not when he’s unarmed; _I_ have more honour than that.”

She saw Cullen’s jaw clench, as though he was fighting back some sarcastic comment, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. The Inquisitor nodded, and the rest of the group relaxed their weapons. “Good. So how about some introductions; I’m Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan. I have with me Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Lord Dorian Pavus, and… well, Sera,” he said with a shrug at the lack of titles, and the elf waved cheerfully at her. “And of course, you know our Inquisition’s Commander,” he added indicating to Cullen.

“ _Commander_?” she repeated, derision clear in her voice; it seemed like a personal slight against her own hard-fought rank that _he_ now owned it too. “Who did you have to sleep with to get that rank?”

Cullen flushed at that, brow furrowing indignantly and mouth opening in protest though unable to formulate a response, and the sight of the Templar turning pink almost made her smile. “Whatever has passed between the two of you, I will not have you speaking to my colleagues that way,” the Inquisitor snapped. “Cullen has earned his title with us.”

“Yeah, by rounding up mages and creating The Gallows version two-point-oh,” Shepard shot back, turning towards Cullen, eyes narrowed. “I heard about Redcliffe, Knight-Captain.”

“The Redcliffe mages joined the Inquisition as their free allies,” the mage - Dorian - piped up. “I can assure you, the last place I would step foot is in a Southern Circle.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what they’d like you to think,” she responded scathingly. “Anyway, it’s been a pleasure to meet you all. I’ll be going now.” She turned, about to limp away from the group, but the woman Cassandra stepped forward and planted a firm hand on her shoulder, rooting her in place. “Get your hand off me before you lose it,” Shepard warned her, but the woman looked distinctly unimpressed by her threats.

“I cannot just let you leave,” the Inquisitor said. “You stole from us.”

“Ah, and now you’re exacting religious justice,” Shepard surmised.

“In another situation, perhaps, but that was before I saw you torturing a Venatori for information.”

“I was not _torturing_ him,” she bristled. “I was interrogating him. There’s a distinct difference.”

“But why?” the Inquisitor persisted. “Why are you interested in Corypheus’s movements?”

“Suffice to say, you and I have the same goals,” Shepard answered evasively. “You needn’t know anything more than that.”

“Humour me,” said the Inquisitor, and Shepard sighed. If she hoped for them to let her go, some semblance of the truth was probably her best bet.

“I’m not from Thedas,” she started. “I ended up here three and bit years ago; the first thing I remember is waking up in the Deep Roads with Corypheus looming over me. I think he pulled me here through a Rift, and I’m hoping that if I infiltrate his base and get my hands on his research I can figure out a way home.”

“Then where are you from?” the Inquisitor asked the inevitable question, and she groaned inwardly.

“A long way away.”

“Beyond the Amaranthine Ocean,” Cullen clarified as he frowned at her. “But you never told me that was how you got here.”

“Why would I?” Shepard shrugged. “The name Corypheus didn’t mean anything back in Kirkwall.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian mused. “Of course, it isn’t surprising that Corypheus ran tests before the Conclave, but this means he has been planning all this for much longer than I expected. But if you’ve no attachment to Thedas, why not simply work _with_ him for his information? He has as much need for talented mages as the Inquisition does.”

She was momentarily baffled by that question, because the thought of it was so bizarre to her; with an army of brainwashed followers and a giant hole in the sky Corypheus was so obviously, stereotypically evil that allying with him had never once crossed her mind. “Why would I want to work with him after what he’s done to the Templars?”

“I’m surprised you care about the fate of the Templars,” Cullen admitted, and that annoyed her even more than Dorian’s question. 

“Of course I care,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t wish what’s happened to them on anyone.” It was true, and as angry as she was with him now she was also relieved; she’d fought the odd squad of Red Templars, and with every kill a small voice at the back of her mind had worried that it was him she’d struck down. She’d checked their faces after, but they’d been too twisted by lyrium to identify, and so she could only hope that he’d listened to her back in Kirkwall and gotten out before it was too late.

She was grateful that he had, but she would’ve preferred it if he was doing _slightly_ less well for himself.

“And what happens if you don’t find the information that you want?” the Inquisitor spoke again, distracting her from her current train of thought.

“Then I’ll settle for beating the shit out of Corypheus.”

She saw Cullen roll his eyes again, and she arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to comment. But he remained silent, and the Inquisitor spoke instead. “You know, you’d have a better chance of finding what you want if you join us.”

Shepard blinked, taken aback by the offer. She was anticipating another capture at the hands of Cullen, being dragged to their headquarters and tried for perceived crimes against their organisation. This was not what she had expected.

“Why on Earth would you want me to join you?”

“You’re obviously a talented fighter, even if you were a little… rash, back there. Cullen was rather complimentary of your battle prowess, actually, and I’ve never met a mage who uses daggers before. Plus, I could always use someone who charges headfirst at a Pride demon.”

“And if I say no?” she persisted. “Shackle me and drag me back to your not-a-Circle? I assume that’s why Rutherford’s here; he always did enjoy tying me up.”

Sera cackled loudly at that, whilst Cullen groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I—that is _not_ what it sounds like, a-and it’s not even true, and—Maker’s breath, this is exactly the reason Meredith hated you,” he stuttered, and for the first time that day a small smile found its way onto Shepard’s lips.

“I won’t force you into joining us,” the Inquisitor said fairly. “But I think it would be unwise to turn us down. You had one quick glance through some of our documents; we know far more than you saw, and have far more resources than you to act on our information. You’ll never find Corypheus without us.”

“You’d be surprised what I can do.” She regarded the Inquisitor critically for a moment. He seemed honest, trustworthy; she’d heard stories of the Herald of Andraste, and though the claims of divinity were obviously exaggerated that didn’t mean he wasn’t a good man capable of doing great things. Especially if the mage Dorian was being truthful, and that he had allied with the mages rather than conscripted them; she’d been in the Gallows for such an insufferably long time that, even though she had no power over the Fade, she couldn’t help but identify with mages. “And what would you expect of me?” she asked.

“I spend a lot of time in the field, and need good men and women by my side. You would accompany me on missions and assist me in fighting whatever stands in our way; demons, Venatori, Red Templars.”

Well, that sounded awfully tempting; it appealed directly to the explorer in her, to the young woman who had once looked across the galaxy with wide-eyed awe and wonder. Thedas was hardly the Armstrong Nebula, but it’d do.

“Alright,” she said. “But I have some conditions.”

“Name them.”

“I get to look over any information you gather on Corypheus, and I want to be there when you confront him. Also I have a friend - Liara. She’s… gone her own way for the time being, but when I find her again she must be allowed to join us.”

“That’s all reasonable—”

“I’m not done,” she said, raising a hand to silence him. “I want my own quarters, and I want to be able to come and go as I please.”

“Of course,” the Inquisitor agreed. “As we’ve already said, it’s not a Circle.”

“Good. Finally, I want Rutherford to acknowledge the fact that I’m a Commander.”

“Not a chance,” Cullen interrupted. “We are not the same rank.”

“Oh, believe me, it upsets me just as much as it does you; I’d be a fucking Admiral by now if not for you.” That wasn’t at all true; she was lost to the Alliance long before Cullen had dragged her to the Gallows. Still, it felt good to blame him for it.

“Whatever pirate ship you once owned does not grant you any authority on land.”

“How _dare_ you; my girl was the best—”

“Enough!” the Inquisitor shouted, putting an end to their bickering. “ _Maker’s breath_ , I’m regretting this already. Cullen, you were the one who advised she join us; swallow your pride and agree to her terms.”

“Fine. _Commander_ ,” he grumbled, offering her a curt nod.

“Perfect,” she grinned. “Well, then - I guess we should go.”


	21. Chapter 21

Two hours later the group had set up camp by some quaint little farmstead, and Shepard enlisted the mage Dorian’s help the moment they laid down their packs; despite all her mods and implants, the bash from the Pride demon had rattled her, and she seemed to be having a hard time walking it off. Her chest, in particular, was killing her, breath catching on every footstep, and even an elfroot potion thrown at her by the elf wasn’t taking the edge off. What she really needed was medigel, but as that was long gone magic would have to suffice. He had only been too happy to assist her, and so they retreated to his tent, Shepard quickly settling on the floor and peeling away the layers of her armour as Dorian wrinkled his nose at her injuries.

There was no fuss in the mage’s healing technique, for which Shepard was thankful; he was clinical, methodical, prodding at her ribs with one slender finger to elicit exactly where they were broken and quickly placing one hand over the injury when he’d located it. It sent a pleasant, warm sort of feeling through her chest; she’d never had healing magic used on her before, but there was something soothing about it, like a hot bath after a long day - though she barely remembered what _that_ felt like. When he withdrew his hand the pain was still there, but it was a dull ache rather than the sharp stab it had initially been.

“There,” he said, dusting his palms off with no small amount of disdain. “Now, care to explain to me why you couldn’t do that yourself?”

“I don’t do healing magic,” she shrugged, and he looked at her critically.

“Or, indeed, any type of magic.”

Shepard, for the smallest fraction of a moment, was lost for words; she stared at Dorian stupidly, feeling an odd rush of gratitude for the man. Finally, _finally_ , someone saw her for what she was - or rather, what she was not - and it filled her with an overwhelming sense of relief. She grinned in response, ignoring the baffled look he was giving her.

“I could kiss you.”

“Please don't.”

She laughed, playfully hitting him on the shoulder, though he looked highly affronted by the action. “God, I have been saying this for years, and not one person has listened to me. Even the Knight-Commander couldn’t tell! She just saw a blue glowing woman and images of Tranquillity drowned out all rational thought.”

“You're saying this isn’t a ruse?” Dorian asked. “That people have been mistaking you for a mage all this time?”

“Well, it wasn’t a ruse at first. I told Knight-Captain Oblivious the truth the first time I met him,” she said, pointing her thumb in the direction of the tent flaps. “He just called me a Hedge Mage and whacked out his shackles. After the first ten or so arguments I got fed up and just went along with it. Much less hassle than trying to explain the truth.”

“Well, Southerners really are as blundering as I’ve been led to believe,” he said, now regarding her with intrigue. “So - if I may ask - what are you?”

“Biotic,” Shepard said cheerfully. “Got exposed to weird chemicals in utero that mutated my nerve endings, so now I can control mass effect particles. I’ve got some implants too that help me. Er— does that make sense?” she asked, realising she was talking to him as though he were someone from her home with the capability of understanding it. Though he’d been smart enough to figure out she wasn’t a mage; perhaps with further explanation he would understand.

“Not entirely, but I’d love to hear more about it. So it has nothing to do with accessing the Fade?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Remarkable,” said the mage, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “We’ll have to speak further when we’re at Skyhold. Of course one of Hawke’s companions in _The Tale of the Champion_ was able to exhibit similar powers through the use of lyrium markings,” he said, speaking to himself more than to her, “but just looking at you I can see that’s not the case. Can I be there when you break the news to our Commander?”

“I told you, I’ve already tried; he won’t believe me.”

“He’ll believe me.”

That gave Shepard pause; she’d been considered a mage for so long by so many people, that the idea of announcing herself to the world as a biotic was a little unnerving. She’d tried to explain what she was before, and she’d gotten nowhere, and so now she’d become used to being a ‘mage’; become used to the suspicion and hatred and fighting. It was hard to tell how people would react to ‘biotic’; she assumed most would just think it was a branch of magic, but with those more curious - like Dorian - it would open her up to more questions about when and where and how, which was a short distance away from being called mad. Besides, a small, stubborn part of her fought, if Rutherford wouldn’t believe her about it, he didn’t deserve to know the truth. He could go along thinking she was a mage until the end of time; she didn’t give a damn what he thought of her.

“Just... leave it,” she decided on in the end. “At the end of the day it doesn’t really matter where I get my abilities from. People can think what they want about me.”

“Why would one choose to be a mage in the South?”

“I didn’t _choose_ to get rounded up into a fucking Circle and almost made Tranquil,” she bristled. “People don’t listen, so I’ve adopted the role they’ve forced on me. It saves me the hassle of fighting with idiots like your Commander the whole time.”

“Very well,” Dorian acquiesced, though he looked slightly disappointed. “I would at least suggest you tell the Inquisitor, if only out of respect.”

“I will,” Shepard nodded; it was only right, after all, that her new boss knew the full extent of her abilities, in order to utilise them appropriately. 

“And for the record, Cullen is not an idiot,” he said, a little severely, and Shepard rolled her eyes. “I understand that he’s upset you—”

“He hasn’t _upset_ me,” she said, affronted. “He stabbed me, paralysed me, and left me in a street full of demons and fire.”

“That is… admittedly a poor plan from the man commanding our army,” he acknowledged. “But he’s grown from that man I read about in _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” he continued, a little softer now. “Our Spymaster wanted your head for breaking into Skyhold. Cullen was the one who fought for you to join us and insisted you deserved a chance.”

“What are you, his spokesman?”

“His friend,” Dorian said with a smile, and some of Shepard’s anger ebbed, though there was a tinge of regret with it. She knew, of course, that Cullen had none of the same fondness for her as she did for him. There was no hidden friendship beneath his frowns and grumbles; if he’d had anything more than a vague indifference towards her, he wouldn’t have stabbed her. But now Dorian was here, claiming his friendship. Apparently it wasn’t all mages that he disliked; just her. “Go talk to him,” he urged. “He might surprise you.”

\---

Cullen hadn’t really known what to expect from his reunion with Shepard; wariness perhaps, inappropriate jokes definitely, but her anger had not been something he’d anticipated.

He’d never thought too hard about how she might have interpreted what had happened the last time they were together; it seemed so obvious to him that his actions had been to save her life rather than to take it. He might have expected a bit of irritation that he’d hurt her to achieve his goal, but never for a moment did he think she’d view it as a legitimate attempt on her life. It bothered him, to know she had thought him capable of that for so long, but perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising; she was an unharrowed mage, and he was a Knight-Captain. Why would she have expected anything else of him?

For the large part, Shepard ignored him as they made their way back through the Hinterlands, though she was considerably warmer to rest of the group. She quickly struck up conversation with Dorian, who seemed fascinated by her unique magic, and Cassandra, who seemed impressed by her strength and melee technique. Sera initially was hesitant - she seemed to have a fear of magic that Cullen knew only too well - but after trading a couple of barbs with each other Sera apparently decided she liked Shepard’s humour. Most surprisingly, Shepard was even respectful to the Inquisitor, genuine in asking him about the Inquisition’s motives and goals and apparently happy with his responses; it was a far cry from the woman who had constantly questioned authority back in Kirkwall. Though, he supposed, she wasn’t a prisoner now.

They set up camp for the night by Dennet’s farmstead, where they’d left their horses the previous day. Once the tents were set up Shepard quickly disappeared with Dorian, enlisting his help on healing the ribs she was sure she’d cracked during her misguided Pride demon charge, although why she couldn’t heal them herself Cullen had no idea. He accepted a bowl of stew from the Inquisitor without fuss, and retreated to the sanctity of his tent to eat in peace. His peace was disturbed, however, by a rustling of his tent five minutes later; he looked up from his food with a frown, expecting an appearance from Sera to further grate on his nerves, but was surprised to see Cassandra standing at the entrance. 

“What is it? Is everything alright?” he asked, placing his bowl down and casting around for his sword, but Cassandra raised a hand to stop him.

“There is nothing which requires your attention. I came to see if you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” he said a little too quickly, turning his attention back to his food, though Cassandra was not easily dissuaded.

“You’ve been rather quiet since we acquired our new companion.”

“I merely have a headache,” he grumbled. “Shepard tends to have that effect.”

Cassandra laughed at that. “Indeed. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting her to be so… vocal.” Cullen shrugged, trying to eat some of his stew though he no longer found himself hungry, and Cassandra continued hesitantly. “May I sit?”

“If you wish,” Cullen shrugged again, and Cassandra sat down on the floor opposite him. Despite the hard look she wore there was a distinct awkwardness in her posture, and it set Cullen on edge; Cassandra was always upfront, blunt to a fault, and whatever she had to discuss could only be uncomfortable.

“She is the mage you spoke to me about.”

Oh yes, this was going to be uncomfortable.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, gritting his teeth and willing his cheeks not to burn.

Even now, ten years since Kinloch Hold, Cullen’s dreams were still full of horrors he knew he’d never truly escape. It seemed as though every turn in his life presented a new image to haunt him; the demons of Kinloch that destroyed his innocence, the cellar of mangled mage corpses, the madness of his former Knight-Commander. As they’d travelled across the Waking Sea, cramped and cold in a tiny cabin below deck, Cassandra had heard the worst of it; nauseated from the journey and shaking from the lyrium withdrawal, his dreams had been particularly brutal in those first few weeks. At first she didn’t mention it, pretending she couldn’t hear the muffled noises of protest he made in his sleep, and he was perfectly content with that; he didn’t _want_ to talk about it, and knew soon they would be on dry land and she wouldn’t have to be kept awake by him anymore. But then one night he had awoken, sweating and shouting Shepard’s name as the image of her impaled on Meredith’s sword scorched his mind, and of course Cassandra had been curious enough to ask him whose name that was.

He’d had that dream again, more than once. Sometimes he’d killed her, sometimes it was Meredith, sometimes it was a desire demon. But the outcome was always the same; she was dead, and the guilt he was left with refused to let him sleep the rest of the night. But on that particular night, tired and broken, he’d told Cassandra about Shepard, everything from her capture to the astounding bravery she’d shown in the face of Kirkwall’s destruction.

“You never told me you were the one ordered to kill her,” Cassandra said, in a softer voice than he was used to from the Seeker.

“Of course it was me,” Cullen grumbled. “I liked her a great deal. Meredith saw that, and used it against me to solidify my loyalty to the Order.”

“Why did you not stand up to her?” Cassandra asked, though it wasn’t an accusation. “You ordered Meredith to stand down mere hours later.”

“I couldn’t,” he said. “Shepard was a known member of the Mage Underground. Had I defended her, the other Templars would have seen it as a betrayal of the Order and struck me down with her. But my intention was _not_ to kill her,” he said forcefully. “I only intended to wound her enough for Meredith to think I’d done the job.”

“I do not think it is me you need to convince of that.”

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was a mistake to recruit her. I did not consider— did not think—”

“Do not worry, Cullen,” Cassandra interrupted him. “The good thing about people who flare up that quickly is they often cool down faster.”

“This is coming from first-hand experience, I take it,” he couldn't help but smirk.

“Be careful, Commander,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. “I can assure you my right-hook is worse than hers.”

Cullen let out out a hoarse chuckle, glad that he had the Seeker to call his friend in the Inquisition. The tent rustled again, and they both started, looking up quickly to the entrance of the tent.

“Oh,” Cullen said, surprised to find the very woman they had been discussing stood there, looking almost hesitant as she regarded them. “Shepard.”

“I wanted a word,” she said, sounding slightly nervous. “But if you’re busy…”

“No! No, of course not,” he said, eager to talk to her now she seemed to have calmed down - apparently Cassandra was right about hotheaded people. “Did you want to - er - come in, or—”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Cassandra said, shooting a brief, _I-told-you-so_ look at him as she left and Shepard eased into the tent, though she didn’t sit, small enough to stand without brushing her head against the canopy.

“Sorry,” she began. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your girlfriend.”

Cullen snorted, rolling his eyes. “Maker, are you starting this already?”

“Starting what?” she asked, brow furrowed, and he realised with some embarrassment that she wasn’t joking.

“Oh. Never mind. Cassandra is just a friend.”

“So she’s single?” she asked, suddenly seeming more interested. “That’s good to know. She’s very pretty.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Cullen muttered, briefly wishing she was still refusing to talk with him. “I - er - I don’t think you’re her type. You’d have better luck with Sera.”

“The elf?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “She’s a bit young for me. Plus it looks like she cuts her own hair with rusty scissors.”

“I think she probably does,” Cullen agreed, unable to help the laughter that bubbled up in his chest. Shepard didn’t smile, continuing to regard him with a hard stare, and Cullen felt a sense of foreboding as he phrased his next question. “I take it there was something else you wished to discuss?”

“I… yes,” she nodded, dropping eye contact with him and chewing her lip, suddenly seeming strangely vulnerable. “Did you mean it?” she asked. “When you said you wanted to save me? Or was that just a convenient story now I’ve turned up alive?”

“Of course I meant it,” he said, desperate for her to believe him. “I only ever meant to draw blood with that hit. And it worked - Meredith believed it, at any rate.”

“And the paralysis philtre?” she persisted.

“I needed you to look dead. I could hardly trust you to keep quiet without it.”

“I can’t believe that was the best plan you could come up with,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“You could have run,” he pointed out, mildly annoyed by her criticism. “But you forced my hand.”

“You could’ve done the right thing, turned on your psycho boss. Which, as I understand, you did do about an hour later,” she said, and from Shepard it was an accusation.

“Shepard,” he began, standing up now to better face her, though he had to stoop in the tent. “You _know_ I couldn’t do that. They would have killed us both. What I did gave us both the best chance—”

“Bullshit,” she said, crossing her arms. “That’s the justification you’ve created now you’ve had three years to think about it. I was there, and you looked terrified at the prospect of going against Meredith, even though you knew what she was ordering you to do was wrong. What you did saved _you_ ; I was secondary to that decision.”

He considered her for a moment, realising suddenly that beyond the glare and aggressive posture she’d been _hurt_ , more than physically, by the course of action he had taken. And it was hard to argue, because he knew, really, that she was right. “Alright, I was scared,” he admitted, and it was the first time he’d admitted as much to himself. “But I _did_ do it to save you too,” he said forcefully, and she sighed but said nothing. “If it helps, I’ve felt guilty about it for the past three years.”

“That does help. A bit.” She sighed, her shoulders losing some of their tension as she rubbed her forehead. “Why did you come for me?”

“Because you stole information from us, and we needed to know—”

“No - why did _you_ come for me?” she cut him off. “Trevelyan said you don’t usually join him in the field. You could have just told him how best to approach me and stayed at your base with your army.”

He chose to ignore the sarcastic emphasis she placed on ‘your army’. “I was concerned that you would attack the Inquisitor and run.”

“And you have the experience in catching me,” she concluded with a frown.

“No, I…” he trailed off with a sigh. “I just… I thought that if you ran, I would never have the chance to speak to you again. And there were things I wanted to say.”

“Oh,” Shepard said, brow tilting up in a much softer expression. “Such as?”

He floundered, briefly, under her searching gaze, the words he’d practised becoming lodged in his throat. Her anger had ebbed, but that didn’t mean she was ready to forgive him, and looking at her now he wasn’t sure if she even wanted to hear what he had to say. 

“Kirkwall was… I was in a bad place,” he began, ignoring the feeling of trepidation in his chest. “I did things - thought things - which I am not proud of. You were always…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely as he failed to come up with the best way to describe her. “Well, you saved my life twice, and still I saw you as an abomination waiting to happen. That city had more than its fair share of blood mages, but I tarred you all with the same brush, and that was unjust. I just— I want you to know that I am trying to be better than I was.”

She didn’t reply for an agonisingly long time, and he was sure, _sure_ , that she was going to tell him it was too late; that whatever good work he did with the Inquisition would never make up for what had occurred in that city. “What happened, Cullen?” she asked instead, voice soft, surprising him with the invocation of his given name. “I read _The Tale of the Champion_. You got better towards the end, but at the start you really seemed to hate mages. Why?”

“I…” he started, and for a wild moment he considered telling her everything; the torture, the abominations, the sleepless nights he’d suffered for years. But he couldn’t; his demons were his own, and he didn’t want her to think even less of him. “It matters not,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I never hated you.” 

She looked disappointed by his reticence, but didn’t press him. “Thank you,” she said, before adding, “I know it’s difficult. Changing your perspective. But for your sake I’m glad you’re trying.”

“Perhaps we could start again?” he volunteered, taking a step towards her, but quickly losing confidence as she tensed at his movement. “I-I understand if you— I mean, I do not expect you to want…” he trailed off with a sigh, searching for a way to express himself. “I’ve missed being annoyed by you,” he settled on with a shrug.

“I would like that,” Shepard replied with a determined nod, and he couldn’t help but smile at her words, the fist clenched in his chest gradually relaxing. “I suppose I’ve missed annoying you,” she added, with that irrepressible grin that always made him slightly nervous in Kirkwall. “But what about your Templar buddies? You’re not going to push me into a cupboard whenever one of them walks past, are you?”

“I left the Order when I left Kirkwall. I am no longer bound by their rules or expectations.” 

“You gave up the Templars?” she asked, eyes lighting up with glee as he nodded. “You took my advice.”

“If I recall correctly, you told me to open a shop.”

“Baby steps. Well, at any rate - I look forward to working with you. Commander,” she added, sticking her hand out towards him. He didn’t hesitate in taking it, and shook it firmly.

“As do I, Commander.”

Her grin broadened, and his did too, because if there was one thing true about Shepard it was that her smile was infectious. Perhaps, he hoped quietly to himself, he wouldn’t regret recruiting her after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. I hit 300 kudos and 3000 views which seems slightly crazy to me?? I keep saying it, but thank you all so much for your comments and feedback and for sticking with my story. Good news, our favourite Commanders are sloooowly getting on the right track. First comes friendship, then comes "oh, _fuck_ , I'm in love with her".


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive! Sorry for the wait - have an extra long chapter that I can't bear to look at anymore and my reassurances that soon I won't have a pesky job keeping me from writing!

The next morning the weather was brighter, as were Cullen’s spirits.

The group quickly tacked up their horses, and Shepard was delighted when the Inquisitor told her to choose a horse for her own; their journey back to Kirkwall had evidently fostered in her a fondness for the creatures, and she quickly picked a small palomino mare, fawning over her as the Inquisitor helped her with the saddle and naming her Mako before they’d left the stables. He was glad that she seemed not to have changed her mind about starting afresh; she remained pleasant with him and the group, though he sensed a guard around her still. Had he not spent so much time travelling with her those years ago he wouldn’t have even noticed it, but knowing her as he did he could tell she wasn’t quite as lighthearted or carefree as she’d once been; there was a cynical edge to her humour, an even greater reluctance than usual to answer questions honestly, and she was less generous with her smiles. Whether that was due to what had passed between them, or the passage of time itself, he couldn’t be sure. What hadn’t changed, however, was the pleasure she seemed to derive from tormenting him; still, her teasing was preferable to her anger.

“It seems as though you two have made up,” the Inquisitor noted as the began their ascent of the mountains that would eventually lead them to Skyhold.

Shepard shrugged. “It’s easier to exact my revenge if I lull him into a false sense of security.”

“I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not,” Cullen replied.

“That’s the point.”

“So come on,” Trevelyan said. “We’re all dying to know; how exactly did Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain become friends with such an outspoken mage?”

“We were not _friends_ ,” Cullen protested, though he didn’t quite know why he was arguing the point; she raised an eyebrow at him, frostiness returning to her countenance.

“Oh, Rutherford, you wound me. Almost as much as you did when you stabbed me.”

“Yes, yes, it was all forbidden,” Dorian waved dismissively. “But you were obviously friendly. Exactly how much time did you two spend together in Kirkwall?”

“Not much,” Shepard said. “It was before Kirkwall when things were really interesting. I’ve spent many a night tied to a bedpost with your Commander.”

“Wha—I— _Maker’s breath_ , Shepard!” Cullen spluttered, blushing up to his ears as Sera burst into raucous laughter. “Will you _please_ rephrase that without making it sound so sordid?”

“But why would I do that when I could make you blush instead?” she asked, smiling sweetly at him. “Besides, it’s true.”

“It is _not_ true, there was no ‘with’ about it; it was just you on the bed and—and—Dorian, will you stop laughing at me?!”

“All those nights spent in the middle of nowhere, with you glaring broodingly at me across a darkened room,” Shepard persisted, a dreamy lilt to her voice, and Cullen would quite happily have been swallowed by a Rift in that moment. “Such an obvious power play, but it was enough to make an apostate go _wild_ with desire.”

“If anyone is asking themselves the question ‘why did the Knight-Commander order me to kill Shepard’ - I believe you have your answer.”

“That’s right. She was jealous; wanted him all for herself.”

“I like this one. She’s funny for a mage,” Sera snickered. “Give you a sovereign if you make his face match his coat.”

“I will gladly take your money. Hey Rutherford, do you remember when—”

“I am done listening to you!” Cullen interrupted, desperately not wanting to hear whatever the end of that sentence was - and, more to the point, not wanting the group to hear it. “I think I preferred it when you were angry with me,” he muttered, though they both knew that wasn’t true. “Dorian, to answer your question properly; Shepard and I met when I was fighting Tal-Vashoth on the Wounded Coast. She came to my aid using her magic, not realising I was a Templar.”

“‘Came to my aid’?” she repeated, lips quirking up in amusement. “Way to completely undersell it. He was about a second away from having his head stuck on a pike when I stumbled upon him.”

“That is… not inaccurate,” he reluctantly admitted.

“So you had your life saved by an apostate,” Dorian surmised, looking thoroughly entertained by the story. “And I suppose our fine Commander did the honourable thing and let his saviour go?”

“Like Hell he did,” Shepard cut in now. “He offered me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of going peacefully to the Gallows. An offer which I declined.” 

“Ah. Forceful detention, then?”

“Once I caught her,” Cullen grumbled, a part of him still bitter over the sheer trouble she’d caused him; never before, and never again, had it required so much effort to bring in an apostate. “She attacked me and ran off. She was almost at Tantervale by the time I was able to apprehend her.”

“I did _not_ attack you,” Shepard countered with a roll of her eyes. “I knocked you off your feet with barely more than a light breeze.”

“Wow,” Sera said. “Knew you were uptight, but didn’t think you’d go all the way to Tantervale cos a mage got one-up on you.”

“It is not a case of having a vendetta, Sera,” Cassandra said severely. “Cullen was upholding his sacred duty as a Templar.”

“Pffth, you’re both boring,” Sera said, blowing a raspberry at no-one in particular. “Least we have a fun one now. Just don’t go spitting out any demons and we won’t have a problem, alright?”

The rest of their journey passed in much the same fashion; the group questioned Shepard on her background, her training, her homeland, all of which she was predictably vague about. She still maintained she came from across the Amaranthine Ocean, and that she’d enlisted in a military organisation from a young age, but anything more personal than that and she quickly clammed up, offsetting the question with a joke or a counterpoint, so by the time they arrived back in Skyhold Cullen barely knew any more about her than he had during Kirkwall. If any of her stories were true, which he still doubted.

The Inquisitor had sent word ahead of their successful recruitment mission, and so Josephine and Leliana descended on them quickly as they entered the gates. Josephine, her usual charming self, extended a formal welcome to the Inquisition to Shepard, though Leliana was considerably frostier; there were thinly veiled threats behind her greetings, and whilst Shepard pursed her lips in amusement she thankfully said nothing to further antagonise the Spymaster. He returned to his tower as the group disbanded, inwardly sighing as he thought of the pile of work which undoubtedly would have accrued in his absence. He wasn’t wrong; he entered his office and, finding three distinct piles of documents on his desk, he settled down for a long day - and probably long night - of paperwork.

The one good thing was that someone had gone to the trouble of categorising the paperwork for him, separating it by date, urgency and content, and he mentally made a note to find out which of his recruits had taken the time to assist him in this way. It definitely eased the burden; he found himself almost three quarters of the way through as the sun began to set, and he reclined in his chair towards the window, taking a brief moment’s respite under the dying rays of the sun.

He inhaled a long, deep breath as he closed his eyes, then exhaled slowly, revelling in the fleeting moment of calmness and solitude. It wouldn’t be long before someone disturbed him in his sanctum and he’d be called away, to meet around the War Table or train his troops or answer an urgent missive from someone out in the field. It seemed so long since he had just rested, and he tried not to think too hard on the work still needing his attention, trying instead to merely enjoy the way the sunlight warmed his face. Today was a good day, in terms of his withdrawal; he had slept as well as he could ever hope to, the headaches which plagued him had yet to surface, and his hands were free from shaking. Perhaps he would take a stroll along the battlements, or head to the underforge and enquire whether— 

The door of his office burst open, and just like that his peace was shattered. Of course it was.

“Cullen!” the Inquisitor, flanked by Josephine, exclaimed. “Herald’s Rest, ten minutes.”

“You must forgive me, Inquisitor, but I have a great deal of work to do and—”

“Nonsense,” Josephine waved dismissively. How was she always so lighthearted? From the looks of her desk she had just as much paperwork as him. “We’re having a party to officially welcome your friend into the Inquisition. You must join us.”

“Ambassador Montilyet, I do not know who you could possibly be talking about,” he said firmly, and she looked at him confusedly for a moment.

“He pretends they’re not friends,” Trevelyan said as an aside to Josephine, and comprehension dawned on her face. “It’s rather entertaining.”

“Do you claim to be friends with any women you’ve stabbed, Inquisitor?”

“What a vulgar question in such polite company,” the Inquisitor exclaimed in mock outrage, and Josephine let out a surprisingly unladylike laugh.

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Cullen grumbled. “You’ve known her a day and you’re already making the same awful jokes at my expense. I fear for the future of this organisation.”

“All the more reason for you to join us,” Josephine persisted. “If you do not come, how will you be able to stop her from telling stories about you?”

That, he had to admit, was a good point, and he cursed Josephine for being such a skilled diplomat. “Fine. _One_ drink,” he stressed. “Then I really must get back to my work. Let me finish this report, and I will join you.”

\---

Shepard was glad that her decision to ally with the Inquisition didn’t immediately bite her in the ass on arriving at their fortress; there were no shackles, no Templars waiting for her, no surprise trial for her crimes against their organisation. She’d hoped the Inquisition were being genuine when they’d proposed their alliance; however, it did occur to her that their offer might be too good to be true. Adventure, camaraderie, a bad guy to defeat and free reign to shoot shockwaves at demons; it was what she craved, what she was good at, and had Cullen been any less remorseful she might have been convinced it was a trap. But he’d seemed sincere, even troubled, over both her attack and his actions in Kirkwall on the whole and, though her past dealings with him had only ever given her grief, she wanted to believe that he was trying to be better. She was no stranger to regret or poor decisions, after all. She still planned for possible betrayal on their journey back but, as the only escape plan she could come up with was hitting them with a Singularity and racing away on her horse, she was thankful not to be disappointed by them.

The Inquisitor himself came across as principled, if a little pompous, but she didn’t mind that too much; she could hardly expect someone claiming to sent by God to be down-to-earth. He clearly wanted to save the world, all youthful idealism and wide-eyed optimism, and it was rather endearing; he reminded her of herself, actually, before she knew the sacrifices that saving the world entailed. As for his companions, Dorian and Sera certainly seemed like fun; Cassandra, who was apparently some sort of special Templar, was more difficult to read, and she couldn’t be sure whether her questions were mere curiosity or a way of identifying how best to fight Shepard in the event of demonic possession.

She was welcomed at the gates by two of Trevelyan’s advisers - well, ‘welcome’ was perhaps too warm a word for the Inquisition’s Spymaster, who Shepard had overpowered on her failed recon mission and whose eyes flashed even as she introduced herself with a smile. The Ambassador, however, Shepard instantly liked, not in the least for offering her a hot bath before a tour of Skyhold. Lady Josephine escorted her to her new quarters - a small but cosy room overlooking Skyhold’s garden - all the while chatting in her pretty Antivan lilt about the castle’s renovations, and promised to send for her bath before meeting her in an hour for the official tour.

She could have used about three hours in the tub, for she spent most of her alloted hour trying to tease the knots out of her hair, and she was endlessly grateful for the soaps and hair products Josephine had also sent along. It had grown out of control during her time on the lam, red waves now more frizzy than curly and almost down to her waist, and Liara had offered to cut it on more than one occasion. Shepard had refused her each time, painstakingly braiding it each morning even as Liara rolled her eyes; her long hair, as childish as she knew it was, had always been her own little form of rebellion, first from her mother who’d fussed over her inability to keep it neat and then from the Alliance’s regs. She’d been forced to cut it, once, by her drill sergeant at Alliance boot camp, but after earning her N7 stripes people had quickly shut up about her hairstyle - although her crew had frequently moaned about her moulting over the command deck. Regardless of its inconvenience, Shepard didn’t think someone with hair tentacles was best equipped for the role of coiffeuse. 

She eased out of the bath when she was sufficiently pruney, towelling her hair before braiding it once more. Josephine - God bless her - had also provided her with a change of outfit, and though Shepard was beginning to suspect the Ambassador just hated the way she looked she was more than happy to put on the clean clothes. They were nothing fancy - a checked shirt, brown trousers and fitted jacket - but compared to what Shepard had been putting up with it was High Fashion, and she couldn’t help but let out a contended sigh at the feel of soft fabric against her skin.

In the back of her mind, a small voice reminded her that she needed to stay wary of the Inquisition. But if was very hard to pay attention to that voice when the Inquisition gave her new boots.

After allowing herself one final moment of calm before descending into the fray of the Inquisition, she pulled on said new boots and headed for the door, figuring she’d be able to see Josephine coming from her spot overlooking the garden. She jumped, however, on pulling the door open and being immediately confronted by a man - or perhaps boy - skinny and pallid, in shabby clothes and a floppy hat, and staring at her far too intensely.

“Hello,” he exclaimed brightly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Ah… hello,” Shepard replied. “Did the Ambassador send you?” she asked, though that seemed unlikely; she doubted Lady Josephine would choose someone quite as _raggedy_ as this boy to escort new arrivals.

“No,” he shook his head. “I wanted to see you straight away, but Solas said to wait. Oceans of stars, bright, brilliant, blinding. She was the anchor, the calm between hurtful horizons. Where is it?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“I… _what_?!” was all she could say, staring dumbly at the boy as she picked through his unnervingly insightful words. _Oceans of stars_ \- where did he get _that_ from?

“Oh, sorry. I’m Cole. I’m not from here either, but nearer. I think.”

“And how do you know where I’m from?”

“There’s starlight inside you,” he replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, and if he wasn’t so accurate she would have been sure he was insane. As it was, she didn’t know what to make of him, but she did know it was becoming increasingly hard to fight the urge to run away from him. “I know it hurts, but I can help.”

“Where’s Ambassador Montilyet?” she asked, trying to plan her escape route, but he stood fast in the doorway, looking slightly past her as he spoke again.

“Talking to the Herald. Quills of steel, sharp but soft, he smiles to himself as she works. He’s going to tell her soon.” 

“Cole!” Shepard was endlessly grateful for the voice which interrupted them; they both turned to see an elf walking purposefully towards them, eyes fixed on the boy. Though dressed plainly, all muted fabric and bare feet, he held himself with a distinct poise, shoulders drawn back with a gracefulness in his walk. “Cole, I said you should wait,” he said as he came to stand beside the boy, though there was no rebuke in his voice; he spoke softly, like a teacher guiding their pupil.

“I did. I waited here.”

The elf smiled slightly, turning to Shepard. “Forgive Cole. He is not yet familiar with this world; I apologise if he made you uncomfortable, but he has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“Why?” Shepard asked, eyeing the boy warily. “How does he know about me?”

“That may take some explaining. My name is Solas,” the elf said, with an incline of his head. “Cole is a spirit of compassion, and possesses the ability to see the pain in others - amongst other things. He seemed to take a particular interest in you from the moment you breached Skyhold.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed. “You like to help. So do I.”

“So he’s an abomination,” she surmised, folding her arms across her chest.

“I suppose that reaction is to be expected from a Kirkwall mage,” Solas replied, the lilting cadence of his voice turning slightly harder. “Or not a mage, as the case may be.”

That threw Shepard for a moment, but she recovered quickly, frowning as she realised how that news must’ve gotten out. “I see Dorian waited all of three seconds before he started gossipping about me.”

“I have not yet spoken with Dorian since your group’s return, but I have walked the Fade long enough to know a mage when I see one,” Solas replied, with a little smirk that made Shepard’s frown deepen. “And you, Commander Shepard, are no mage.”

“Sparks of blue, blades of red, _I can hit harder than they can_ ,” Cole chipped in now, and Shepard strongly considered shutting her door in both their faces. “But it’s metal that makes the magic.”

“Okay, you _really_ need to stop that,” Shepard snapped, becoming increasingly perturbed by the spirit - if Solas was to be believed - and his weird psychic ramblings, though she felt a flicker of guilt as he looked stung by her rebuke.

“Sorry.”

“Cole does not mean any harm,” Solas told her gently, “though I know his insights can be disconcerting at first. It is perhaps best if we leave you for now, but I hope to see your abilities in action soon. Come, Cole.” Solas nodded at her again, and Shepard watched, still somewhat dumbstruck, as he beckoned a reluctant-looking Cole to leave with him.

“She didn’t like that,” she heard Cole say as they headed back indoors. “Should I try again?”

“Yes, but not from the start,” was Solas’ response before the door closed behind them, leaving Shepard confused and sorely hoping that not everyone in Skyhold was as strange as the spirit and his elven friend.

As it transpired, the rest of the Inquisitor’s companions were marginally more normal, and she met each of them in turn as Josephine and Trevelyan escorted her through Skyhold. Hawke was a welcome surprise, as was Varric - who’d helped almost sneak her into the Gallows on her first night in Kirkwall - and though the pair’s presence helped ease her lingering doubts about the Inquisition, she had more important things to discuss with the dwarf than Trevelyan’s motivations.

“I wasn’t in your book,” she accused, and though she fixed Varric with her most withering stare he seemed unfazed by her.

“You were a loose end,” he shrugged. “You can’t just introduce a character in the third act for no reason then never mention them again. Stick around the Inquisition long enough and no doubt you’ll be in the next one.”

“If we all survive this, of course,” Hawke countered. “But it’s nice to see you still kicking; I was sure you would’ve gone full demon after Anders’ little meltdown,” she noted cheerfully. “I’ll let my sister know the good news. Drinks in the Rest later?”

After exchanging a few further words on Bethany - who Shepard was happy to hear was alive and well and far from Kirkwall under the beady eye of Guard-Captain Aveline - she was introduced to another mage, who was far less intrigued by Shepard than either Solas or Dorian and who became even more disinterested following a glib remark from Shepard regarding Circles. In other circumstance she may have found Madame de Fer’s indifference to her insulting, but as it was she was grateful not to deal with yet more tricky questions. The library followed, then the kitchens, then the stables, and a Grey Warden with a magnificent beard whose name Shepard missed because she was too distracted by some sort of dragon-horse they’d wrangled into a harness. Their final stop was the tavern, where she was introduced to a Qunari who was the friendliest of the lot; having already gotten wind of her ill-considered Pride demon Charge, he slapped her on the back with such force her knees buckled before pushing a drink into her hand.

“You know, I’ve never met a Qunari I haven’t killed,” Shepard noted as she took a drag from her ale, almost sighing at the taste of the sweet liquid on her tongue; it had been a _long_ time since she’d had a casual drink at a bar.

“Then all you’ve been fighting is Tal-Vashoth,” the Iron Bull replied. “They’re not proper Qunari. Take on one of the Antaam and it’ll be a different story.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” she said with a smirk, and the Iron Bull let out a rumbling laugh.

“I know better than to spar with a mage I’ve never seen fight. That’s how you end up running through Skyhold with your pants on fire.”

“I don’t do fire, but ten sovereigns says I can knock you on your ass.”

“You’re on,” Bull laughed again. “Wanna take this outside?”

Shepard was just about to answer in the affirmative but Josephine stepped in first. “Can we please refrain from scrapping in the courtyard for today, at least?” she asked desperately. “Inquisitor - how about we invite the rest of your companions to the tavern, as Hawke suggested?”

Trevelyan nodded in agreement, though he’d looked just as excited by the prospect of Shepard and the Iron Bull sparring as Shepard had been. “Good idea,” he said. “We’ll see you two back here in a bit.”

“Actually, before you go running off, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about first. Alone, preferably,” she said to the Inquisitor, with an apologetic glance at Josephine, who looked intrigued but didn’t press it.

“I will be in the War Room,” Josephine nodded to the Inquisitor, who watched her leave with a dopey smile on his face as the Iron Bull headed back to his band of mercs. 

“You two make a cute couple,” Shepard said, taking another drink from her ale; the Inquisitor’s head snapped to face her, colour rising in his cheeks as though she’d just stumbled onto some terrible secret of his.

“We aren’t a couple,” he quickly corrected her.

“But you’d like to be.”

“I - ah - I think we should discuss something else,” the Inquisitor said, clearing his throat and doing his best to maintain eye contact. “What do you think of the Inquisition?”

Shepard smiled at his awkward change of subject, but didn’t prod him further. “I’m not quite sure yet. But it isn’t what I expected at all.”

“What did you expect?”

She hesitated before replying, unsure whether the truth was a wise thing to go with - especially when she couldn’t completely shake her reservations about the Inquisition. “I don’t know,” she settled on with a shrug. “But ‘upstart religious paramilitary group’ isn’t the most reassuring thing to hear.”

Trevelyan, to her surprise, chuckled. “I think that’s why the Chantry denounced us.”

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, musing to herself that the Chantry’s denouncement was either a good thing or a very, _very_ bad thing. “Well, if the whole ‘saving the world’ thing does turn out to be a front, at least you’ve got a bar on site.”

“I hope you’ll come to trust us,” Trevelyan told her. “But I understand it may take some time. Being rounded up by the Templars the moment you set foot in Thedas can’t have given you the best impression of organisations like ours.”

“Yes, well - about that,” Shepard said, quickly veering into the reason she’d asked to speak to him alone in the first place. “It’s not a big deal, just - in the interest of full disclosure, you ought to know. You saw the way I fought back in that fort, right?” Shepard began, perching on one of the bar stools as Trevelyan nodded. “The thing is, what I did back there wasn’t actually magic. Because I’m not a mage.”

Shepard allowed a moment for that to register; Trevelyan frowned at her, opening his mouth twice to speak though not finding words on either occasion. “I don’t understand,” was what he settled on eventually, crossing his arms over his chest.

“There are… similarities between what I do and magic,” she said. “But it’s fundamentally different. It’s tricky to explain the science behind it to you, but it _is_ science; I use energy to manipulate particles in this world so I can Lift, Throw, create barriers, whatever. The Fade has nothing to do with it.”

“But… you were in a Circle,” Trevelyan pointed out, looking thoroughly confused by her revelation but not, she noted, disbelieving.

“Only briefly. I was never Harrowed, and Rutherford will be the first to tell you I did badly in their lessons.” He didn’t reply to that - he looked as if he didn’t have the first idea what to say - and so she continued. “I have no reason to lie to you about this. I’m just telling you because if you specifically need a mage in the field you’ll need to look elsewhere; I can’t set things on fire for you unless you give me a match.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” the Inquisitor said slowly. “It’s just… how did no-one in Kirkwall realise that you weren’t a mage?”

“What else were they going to think I am? Templars can suppress my abilities - they get in the way of my mass effect fields, it’s damn annoying - and I glow blue. Anything that didn’t fit with actual magic they put down to me being a Hedge Mage.”

“So if it’s not magic, how did you come into your abilities?”

Shepard shrugged. “We do things differently where I come from,” was all she told him, not to be evasive, but because if she started talking about Eezo and starship accidents he was going to think she was mad.

“Evidently,” he concurred. “Very well. I don’t really understand it, but I appreciate you telling me. Another drink?”

The Inquisitor turned, sitting down next to her and attempting to signal the barkeep, and Shepard couldn’t help but find his reaction underwhelming; he was the only person in Thedas to whom she’d ever volunteered the truth about her abilities, and though she hadn’t known how he’d respond she’d expected more than _that_. Dorian and Solas had been intrigued by her abilities, whereas Cole had been downright giddy, and rightly so; she was unique in Thedas, but Trevelyan either didn’t realise that or didn’t care. And why would he? The Inquisition was his show, and Skyhold was a stark reminder of how far she’d fallen; from First Human Spectre to a supporting role in someone else’s story, _Commander Shepard_ was nothing more than a name anymore.

“Do you think you were chosen by Andraste?” she blurted out, all at once irrationally annoyed with the man and his station. He looked surprised by her sudden question, but didn’t hesitate with his reply. 

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” she pressed. “What makes you think you’re special?”

“I don’t think I’m _special_ ,” he retorted with a frown. “I just don’t think what’s happened here is down to chance. I need to believe that the Maker has a plan for me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that some people are just unlucky?”

“On the contrary, I’d say I was quite fortunate. It’s an honour to lead the Inquisition.”

Shepard rolled her eyes, scornful that he was yet to realise the burden that came with command. “Yeah, I thought it was fun at first too. Trust me; that’ll change.”

“You speak as though you’ve fought a war like this before.”

Shepard laughed bitterly at the comparison, because in truth her war had been nothing like this. The Inquisition fought in the open, their growing power in Thedas impossible to deny; as for Shepard, her gains always paled next to the loss of entire planets. She’d had no luxury castle in the mountains, no personal pub at the end of a long day; all she’d had was her ship, and her crew, and the suffocating knowledge that as she flew the planets beneath her burned. She had no doubt the Inquisitor would come to know hardship in his fight, but looking around Skyhold it was hard to imagine he’d ever know futility, and she couldn’t help but resent him for that.

“You’d be in a lot more trouble if that were true.”

The Inquisitor’s brow furrowed, looking somewhat insulted by her dismissal. “The fate of the entire world is at stake here.”

“Just the one?” she couldn’t resist retorting. “How quaint.”

Trevelyan’s frown deepened as he tried to figure out what that could possibly mean, and though Shepard knew she was being unbearably aloof it was hard to fight that primal urge to establish dominance. “Well, whatever your prior experience is, any advice you can offer I would be glad to hear,” he settled on with a shrug, and she was unsure whether his sincerity was charming, naïve or simply an act. “Is something the matter?” he asked, her doubt obviously showing on her face.

“I’m struggling to believe that you’re for real,” she admitted.

“How do you mean?”

“Half of Thedas thinks you’re sent by the Maker, and you’ve been handed a huge amount of power on a silver platter; that’s enough to turn many a good man into a tyrant. But you’re just… getting on with saving the world.”

“I hope that means you approve.”

“I don’t disapprove,” she reluctantly acknowledged. “But there’s more to being a good leader than not being a dictator.”

“Well, then I better to work,” he smiled, pushing up from his chair. “But not tonight; tonight we celebrate our latest arrival. I’ll see you back here later.” She nodded at him as he made to leave, standing herself with the intention of joining the Iron Bull’s group, though she paused as Trevelyan called to her from the doorway. “And Shepard? Welcome to the Inquisition.”

\---

The party in the Herald’s Rest was already in full swing by the time Cullen arrived, and how people managed to be so drunk so early on in the evening was beyond him. The Inquisitor’s persuasions had not been entirely successful - Madame Vivienne was notable by her absence - but on the whole he’d done a good job of rounding up his Inner Circle. Cullen did his best to merge into the crowd, not wishing to draw the attentions of the rowdier patrons - Hawke and Varric already seemed to be placing enthusiastic bets on their drinking abilities, and Sera was cackling wildly overhead about something. Shepard, he noticed, was engaged in deep conversation with Cassandra at one of the tables, looking significantly better than when he’d seen her last; hair now neatly braided and skin scrubbed free of grime, he’d almost forgotten how pretty she was when she wasn’t covered in an inch of dirt. Not that that was relevant to anything; it was merely an observation.

Ordering an ale from Cabot, he scanned the bar, quickly locating Dorian and the Iron Bull chatting easily at the other end of it. They both smiled as he approached, Bull pulling out a stool for him and patting it.

“Commander!” Bull exclaimed, always surprising Cullen with his joviality. “Let me get you your next drink.”

“Thank you, Bull, but I’m just having the one.”

“Nah, gotta buy you one for bringing in the mage,” Bull said, flagging down the barkeep and indicating for another round. “Redheads are hot.”

Cullen choked a little on his drink at that, the image of Shepard and Bull together presenting itself _far_ too vividly in his mind, and he coughed to try and clear his throat as Bull eyed him with interest. “I - er - I think she has her sights set on Cassandra,” he said, nodding in Shepard’s direction, a little baffled by what the two women could be discussing so animatedly.

“Pfft, I’ve been barking up that tree for months; she’s not getting anywhere with the Seeker. Anyway, she was checking me out when the Boss introduced us. She gave me this long, hard stare like she was undressing me with her mind.”

“She does that to everyone,” Cullen said, knowing the look of appraisal Bull was talking about; the way her dark eyes bored into a person, gaze flickering back and forth between each limb, drinking in every detail of their posture and armour. She’d looked at every Templar she’d ever met that way, him included, and it had unnerved more than one of the younger recruits. “I think it’s her way of assessing how best to kill a person.”

“Hot,” Bull repeated. “A bit of danger’s always exciting.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Cullen muttered, quickly finishing his drink and moving onto the one Bull had ordered him - the sooner he could finish up here and get back to his work, the better. 

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to utilise that brutish charm of yours in the field,” Dorian said. “It sounds like our Inquisitor intends to use her frequently, and I can see why. I take it they don’t teach you to run headfirst at Pride demons in the Gallows?”

Cullen shook his head. “No. Shepard declined most - if not all - formal teaching at Kirkwall. I did catch her out of bed one time practising some floating trick, though.”

“Levitation?” Dorian asked curiously. “That’s remarkable. I’ll have to ask her to show me.”

“Oh, she won’t pass up an opportunity to show off.”

“Nor should she,” Dorian said emphatically. “One should be proud of their abilities, not scuffle around like timid little mice as most Southern mages do.”

“I don’t recall the Kirkwall mages being particularly timid,” Cullen grumbled.

“No? It took them years to finally rebel against their oppression, and when they did it was only because their hand was forced.”

“That—never mind,” Cullen cut himself off before he could argue with Dorian; now was not the time nor the place to row with the mage. “Let us discuss something else.”

“Sure,” Bull agreed. “So you said she’s—”

“Something other than Shepard, perhaps?” Cullen interjected, growing gradually weary of the conversation. 

Dorian sighed dramatically. “And here I thought you were the one who fought for her recruitment. You’re a more complicated man than you appear.”

“The alternative was Leliana demanding her head.”

“Apparently he only acts when her life is in danger,” Dorian said as an aside to Bull. “Which makes it all the more noble, if you ask me. But I digress - Commander, you wished to change the subject? Very well; how goes preparations for the Winter Palace?”

“You are better off asking Lady Josephine; I am more concerned by this business with the Grey Wardens than picking out fabrics for some party.”

“Careful; if Leliana hears you speaking like that she’ll have _your_ head,” Dorian warned. “May I remind you that if Orlais falls, so does your precious Ferelden. Besides, it’ll be a grand evening! There’ll be dancing and tiny cakes!”

“Did I hear cake?” a voice sounded at Cullen’s elbow; the group turned to see Shepard standing by them at the bar, two empty flagons in front of her. “I can’t remember the last time I had cake. Will there be cake tonight?”

“We’re discussing the Grand Masque being held at the Winter Palace by the Empress,” Dorian clarified. “There’s sure to be enough cake, wine and backstabbing to impress even the most finicky of Orlesians.”

“So… no cake this evening,” she surmised, looking downcast as Cullen shook his head. “Disappointing. When are we going to this party?”

“It is not for some months. Mercifully,” Cullen added under his breath, because the thought of an evening socialising with Orlesian nobility was perhaps the least appealing thing in all of Thedas.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Commander, if you stopped being so relentlessly Fereldan for one evening you might actually enjoy yourself.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Was he always this dour?” Dorian asked, looking to Shepard for an answer.

“Always,” she agreed with a smirk. “So, Rutherford - are you gonna buy me a drink?”

“ _No_ ,” he told her firmly, though he couldn’t suppress the upturn of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “I don’t have any money, and you owe me a drink for all the shit you pulled back in Kirkwall. Actually, you owe me a whole fucking keg.” He was going to argue, but he figured relenting on this would probably be easier; with a sigh he signalled Cabot once more, who was looking increasingly disgruntled at having his tavern filled with so many people. “Cassandra wants one too,” Shepard added, and though he didn’t see why Cassandra couldn’t buy her own drinks he obliged, handing over the coin to Cabot in exchange for two ales.

“What do you and Cassandra even have to talk about?”

“You, of course. She’s telling me what a hopeless Commander you are and how she’d much rather I was in charge of your armies.” He glared at her, and she flashed him a grin in response. “She’s just telling me how she came to start the Inquisition. Cheers,” she said, clinking her mug against Cullen’s half-finished one before taking a gulp. He took a sip of his own ale too, not quite sure what else to do; Dorian and Bull had peeled off with their own conversation, and now it was just the two of them he didn’t really know what to say to her. They’d spoken many times before, of course, but they’d never just freely _chatted_ ; he’d always shut down their conversations, his title of Knight-Captain firmly wedged between them, acutely aware of the risks of idly chatting with a mage. But she wasn’t his charge any more; instead they were equals, fighting towards a common goal, with no looming fear of them being seen on friendly terms. That, in theory, was a good thing - but it was going to take some getting used to.

“So… what do you make of the Inquisition?” he ventured, and though the conversation starter sounded weak to his ears she accepted it readily.

“You know, I’m pleasantly surprised,” she told him. “I thought this would all be much more… sombre, I suppose?” she said, taking a moment to settle on the correct word. “But you’ve got an interesting bunch of people here.”

There was a clatter overhead, and they both turned to see Sera bolting through an upstairs door away from a splattered tray of pastries and a livid-looking Josephine. “Interesting is one word for it,” he said, shaking his head. “But I think you’ll fit in well.”

She looked pensive for a moment before speaking once more. “And you’re fine with that mind-reading spirit-boy?”

“Cole?” Cullen clarified, and she nodded. “I cannot pretend that its presence does not make me uncomfortable, but it seems to truly want to help us. Without it we might not have escaped Haven. It could turn into a demon, but it hasn’t yet.” She didn’t reply straight away; instead she regarded him with a strange look, as though she couldn’t quite tell if he was making a joke. “What?”

“Did you get hit on the head leaving Kirkwall? Or did someone get you with a particularly powerful spell?”

“I fail to see how what I just said is unreasonable,” he scowled, folding his arms across his chest.

“It wasn’t,” she concurred. “It was very reasonable; that’s what’s so unsettling. But fair enough - if you’re not worried about him murdering us whilst we sleep I guess I shouldn’t be either.”

“You actually value my opinion on this?” he asked, unable to conceal the surprise in his voice.

“Of course,” she replied. “If I can trust anyone to watch out for rogue demons in this place it’s the resident Templar.”

“Former Templar,” he corrected.

“You’re pretty set on distancing yourself from all that, aren’t you?” she said lightly, and it annoyed him, because despite his protestations he knew she still saw him as _Templar_. She’d probably always see him as one. He supposed it didn’t matter, but it was harder to fight against his past when faced with a permanent, very vocal reminder of it. That was something he perhaps ought to have considered before recruiting her. “I take it that means you prefer the Inquisition to Kirkwall?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “It helps that Trevelyan is a much more stable boss than Meredith.”

“Rampaging nugs are more stable than Meredith,” Shepard scoffed. “Was what Varric wrote true? About her turning into a statue?”

“Mm,” he assented. “From what I understand, she remains frozen in place in the Gallows. One of the many reasons I was not sorry to leave.”

“We should get her imported. Install her next to the Inquisitor’s throne as a warning to his enemies.”

“There’s no need to be so macabre,” he frowned at her. “The woman _is_ dead.”

“I know. I only joke to mask the heartbreak I feel at her loss. Thanks for the drink, Rutherford,” she winked at him, and before he could chastise her for being so insensitive she had picked up her flagons and was weaving her way back through the crowd to Cassandra. He dithered on the spot, the _Commander_ voice inside him which he could never quite switch off reminding him of the unfinished paperwork in his office, though now he was away from it he found himself reluctant to return. It was rare for him to ever just take a break like this, to take time to socialise with people whose company he enjoyed, because he _did_ enjoy the company of a number of Trevelyan’s companions; Dorian and Cassandra he was particularly fond of, and Blackwall he respected, and— well, he couldn’t deny that Shepard was entertaining. Besides, the Inquisitor and Josephine had gone to considerable effort to get everybody in one place; it would be rude to leave so early.

With a determined nod to himself he signalled to Cabot once more, who dutifully trudged over to take his order. He supposed there was no harm in staying for just one more drink.


	23. Chapter 23

The next few days were filled with armour fittings and weapon appraisals, and by the end of it Shepard felt like a new person. Or, more accurately, like the person she _had_ been. It wasn’t quite the same, of course. She did miss her guns, and despite her best persuasions Varric refused point-blank to lend her Bianca, but the set of daggers supplied to her by the quartermaster were a remarkably well-made replacement. And whilst nothing could ever compare to her old N7 armour - which was now buried under four feet of rubble in Kirkwall - the blacksmith created a fine new suit for her in next to no time; he’d even allowed her a certain amount of autonomy over the commission, raising an eyebrow but nonetheless obliging her request for elbow spikes and an N7 stripe down the arm. She smiled as she tried it on for the first time, testing each joint in turn before sparking up a barrier to settle over her new equipment.

“Happy?” 

“Absolutely,” Shepard beamed. “Thanks, Harritt.”

Harritt grunted in acknowledgement, still inspecting his work as it encased her. “Now, the main bodywork is onyx for manoeuvrability, but the spikes are Nevarrite for extra clout. Not that I understand why a mage wants to be close enough to elbow her enemies,” he grumbled as he tweaked the position of her pauldrons.

“A lot of mages are working on their close-quarters combat these days,” chipped in Dagna, who had been present for most of Shepard’s fittings and who had - much to Harritt’s chagrin - frequently offered up suggestions on armour modifications. “Helps when you’re fighting Templars to have something to fall back on. This is a nice piece of armour for that.”

“ _Nice_?” Harritt repeated, and if Dagna sensed his contempt for the word she didn’t let that deter her.

“Yeah, I like onyx for armour. Nice and shiny.”

“I didn’t make it for the _shine_.”

“It shines a lot with Shepard’s magic,” Dagna continued as she approached Shepard with interest, eyes wide and focused on the blue glow of her barrier. “I never saw any magic like this in the Circle,” she said, reaching out and prodding Shepard’s glowing forearm with no hesitation. “Ha. Tingly.”

“You were in a Circle?”

“Not _in_ a Circle like you were,” Dagna answered, still looking at the barrier rather than at her. “But they let me study there - in Ferelden, and then further afield. I learnt a lot, but not this. Can I do a quick experiment?” she asked, rummaging around her pockets and pulling out some sinister-looking metallic object.

“What? No!” Shepard exclaimed, dropping her barrier and taking a step back from the dwarf.

“Awh, it doesn’t hurt!” Dagna protested, but didn’t push it any further. “Well, maybe another time. Maybe if you bring me back some rare stuff from the field, I can make you a masterwork, and then maybe you’ll let me take a sample? Just a tiny one. As a thank you.”

“She already has armour,” Harritt pointed out, sounding remarkably petulant for a middle-aged man.

“New daggers, then,” Dagna persisted. “If you bring me some Fade-Touched Dawnstone I can make your enemies explode,” she told her with a glint in her eye which made Shepard equal parts unnerved and intrigued.

“Exploding enemies?”

“Yeah! It’s just—”

“Commander Shepard!” a stern voice interrupted them as the door to the Undercroft swung open, and they turned to see Sister Leliana marching towards them. “Commander, we need to talk about these documents you completed for our Ambassador.” Shepard groaned inwardly as Leliana waved two sheets of paper at her; she’d been expecting some sort of retribution for them, but not quite this soon. The documents in question had been given to her on her first morning in Skyhold by Lady Josephine, who’d politely asked her to submit her ‘personal details’ to the Inquisition’s record, and the questions had ranged from tricky to impossible; in the end, she’d offered up half-truths and had hoped that they wouldn’t pay too close attention to her answers.

“Is there anything in particular you needed clarification over?” Shepard asked, endeavouring to sound helpful, but it just came out sarcastic; Leliana, who had evidently heard it the same way, narrowed her eyes at her.

“Your name would be a start.”

“I wrote my name.”

“You wrote ‘Commander Shepard’,” she hissed. “Now, unless you mean to tell me your parents named you ‘Commander’—”

“I don’t go by my given name, so you don’t need to know it,” she said firmly. “If I did tell you, people here would just start calling me by it, and then I’d have to leave because it would be utterly unbearable.” Leliana said nothing, instead continuing to glare at her, and Shepard took the opportunity to distract her from the name question. “What about the rest of it? I filled it out as best as I could.”

“Your date of birth doesn’t even make sense!”

“Let me see,” Shepard said, craning her neck to read where she’d scrawled _11 April_ on the parchment. “Ah - that’s an honest mistake on my part; I get confused with your calendar. What’s the fourth month? Drakonis?”

“Cloudreach. And which year?”

Shepard knew it would only antagonise the Spymaster, but she just couldn’t resist the old joke that bubbled at the back of her throat. “Every year,” she said, suppressing a smirk as Leliana’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shepard said, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m just kidding - I’m thirty-three.”

“Commander, if you refuse to answer these questions I can and will find out the truth for myself. I will not have anyone threaten the integrity of the Inquisition.” There was an unmistakable threat in the Spymaster’s words, and though it didn’t scare Shepard in the slightest - if anything she’d be impressed to see Leliana come up with ‘the truth’ on her background - she knew, for the sake of all involved, that she needed to start playing nice.

“I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” Shepard offered. “Would it help if I apologised for that unfortunate throwing incident?”

“No,” was the - utterly predicable - response she received. “Now, under family you’ve written ‘not applicable’.”

“Because it’s not applicable. They’re all dead.”

“Ah,” Leliana paused, softening slightly as something other than disapproval entered her countenance. “Well, you have my sympathies. So there is no-one we can document as your next of kin?”

“No family, but you can put down my friend - Liara T’Soni. Speaking of whom, have you heard any reports of a… slightly unusual looking woman out West? Possibly fighting Red Templars?”

“No,” Leliana said, though she surprised Shepard by adding, what looked like against her better judgement, “but if I hear anything of the sort, I shall let you know.”

“Thank you,” Shepard replied, and she meant it. “Was there anything else?”

“Let’s see…” Leliana began, scanning down the document, frown becoming more pronounced with every line. “Ah, yes. Under ‘current or previous convictions’ you wrote ‘none in Thedas’. Dare I ask?”

“I got court-martialed back home, once, but I was cleared. Sort of,” she added, realising as she said it that technically she never _had_ been cleared of her terrorism charges; everyone had just forgotten about her trial in the wake of Earth’s invasion.

“So you’re sticking with this story of Corypheus dragging you to Thedas through a Rift,” Leliana surmised, and it was clear from her tone that she didn’t believe it for a moment; there was probably no answer Shepard could give that would make the Spymaster happy.

“Just go ahead and research me, Leliana,” Shepard shrugged. “And tell me what you find?”

Leliana took a step towards her, and for a wild moment Shepard thought the Spymaster was going to attack her, but instead - with what appeared to be a great amount of self-restraint - she turned on her heel and stalked out of the Undercroft. Shepard sighed as the door ricocheted behind her, knowing that was a bridge she would definitely have to build at some point - but actually doing so seemed like a monumental task.

“She’s a lot scarier than she used to be,” Dagna commented.

“How did she used to be?”

Dagna shrugged, turning her attention once more to the metal instrument in her hands. “I met her during the Blight. It’s thanks to her and the Grey Warden that the Circle took me in.”

“You wouldn’t be so fond of the Circle if you were a mage,” Shepard muttered.

“Oh, but you only know the Circle at Kirkwall,” Dagna countered, only absent-mindedly continuing the conversation as she returned to her workstation. “Ferelden’s a lot more relaxed. Although - well, there was that thing with the demons, but luckily the Warden cleared all that up. Wait - I should be saying Queen, shouldn’t I?”

“Demons?”

“Mm,” Dagna agreed, picking up a faintly glowing stone and squinting at it as she held it up to the light. “It was before my time though - Leliana would know more. And Commander Cullen, but I wouldn’t ask him.”

“Cullen’s a Kirkwall Templar,” Shepard frowned. “What would he know about it?”

“He got transferred out of Ferelden not long after I arrived. It’s good to see him doing better. Now, I’ve been tinkering with this rune that the Inquisitor isn’t—” 

“What do you mean, ‘doing better’?”

Dagna looked up from her work, seeming almost surprised to find someone else present. “Oh, nothing, just - there were a _lot_ of demons,” she said with a sheepish smile. “So, do you want to try out this rune? It does electricity damage - it should complement your magic nicely!”

Shepard got the distinct sense that she was trying to change the subject, but she was far too distracted by the word _electricity_ to concern herself with the details of Cullen’s past. “Did you ever think about harnessing electricity for other things? Like… indoor lighting?”

It was a testament to Dagna’s unique fondness of - and skill with - magic that she didn’t scoff at the idea; instead her eyes sparkled at the suggestion, her brilliant mind already whirring over the possibilities. “No, but I don’t know why not - that sounds great! Do you use lightning-based magic like this back home?”

“Kind of. Give me a pen, and I’ll draw you something called a lightbulb.”

\---

An hour later and Dagna had created a detailed schematic of a lightbulb based on Shepard’s rudimentary sketch, and when Shepard finally left the Undercroft it was with a large grin on her face. If the arcanist could successfully tackle electric lighting, then maybe Shepard could work her up to omni-tools. It’d probably take ten years, but it was good to have a goal. She emerged in the main hall to find it significantly busier than when she’d passed through some hours ago; besides the usual throng of civilians the Inquisitor was also present, hovering around Varric’s usual writing spot and flanked by his advisers. The Inquisitor, she noticed, was dressed in his field gear and, whilst another run-in with Leliana was not high on Shepard’s list of priorities, she was too curious not to enquire about it.

“Going somewhere?”

The group looked up as Shepard approached them, their responses ranging from smiles from Varric and Josephine, to a nod from Trevelyan and Cullen, to Leliana’s icy glare. “Yes - Crestwood,” the Inquisitor confirmed. “Hawke’s taking us to meet some Warden friend of hers.”

“Great. I’ll get my kit.”

“Ah - actually, Shepard, you won’t be coming with us,” Trevelyan told her, a distinct awkwardness in his posture as he said it; Shepard frowned, taking another step towards them as _surely_ she must have heard that wrong?

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. It sounded like you said I wasn’t coming with you?”

“Next mission you’ll be my first pick,” he said, in a pitiful attempt to pacify her, “but we’d already planned this before you’d joined us. Besides, I need Blackwall as a Warden, Dorian as a mage, and Varric because—”

“—because you want to listen to him and Hawke telling stories.”

“Well, who _wouldn’t_ want that?” Varric asked with a smile, though it flickered as Shepard turned her glare towards him.

“I’ve made my choice, Shepard,” the Inquisitor told her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find Blackwall. Varric - see you at the gates in ten?”

“Tough break, Flash,” Varric shrugged sympathetically as he trailed out of the hall behind the Inquisitor, leaving Shepard alone with the three advisers and feeling only marginally humiliated at being sidelined in front of them. And also at being nicknamed _Flash_ , which was possibly even worse than her actual name.

“Your new armour looks good,” Cullen offered, breaking the uncomfortable stretch of silence. “The couters might be a bit much.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Rutherford. This is bullshit - what am I supposed to do for two weeks whilst he’s swanning around Crestwood?”

“I don’t know. Something useful? Like filling in Josie’s paperwork correctly?”

“I mean, what’s the point of me even being here if he just wants me to stay at the castle keeping a seat warm?” she continued as though she didn’t even hear the Spymaster’s rebuke. “Is this armour for show? Or does he want me to start doing stage fights for entertainment at dinner?”

“Will you stop going on?” Cullen muttered, rubbing his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“No, I will not!” Shepard said indignantly. “I am not a fucking reserve. I was the first human Spectre!”

“And Cassandra is the Hero of Orlais, yet I don’t hear her complaining like this,” he returned. “Not everyone can be in the field at once.”

“This actually works out well,” Josephine stepped in just as Shepard was readying another retort designed specifically to make Cullen’s headache worse. “Marc— the Inquisitor has informed me he intends to bring you to the Winter Palace, and there is a lot of preparation we will need to undertake.”

“I thought that was months away.”

“I know; only three,” Josephine said, looking worried by the prospect. “Besides our fittings and rehearsal and etiquette lessons you still need to learn about the Game, and how familiar are you with ballroom dancing?”

“That’s a joke, right?” Shepard asked, a small part of her wondering whether being sidelined for the Winter Palace too was preferable to having to take part in etiquette classes.

“Not everything is a joke, Shepard,” Leliana cut in. “It is of the utmost importance that the Inquisition presents itself well at court; if we fail to play the Game to win we will be dead in Orlais.”

Cullen scoffed. “I am sure the Inquisition will survive if one of us uses the wrong fork at dinner.”

“But it is best not to take that risk,” Josephine countered, and Shepard was beginning to get the distinct impression that quenching arguments before they started was her speciality. “I will prepare an itinerary for you, Shepard. We have our tailor arriving in a few days, but in the meantime it would be useful to know your measurements. And yours, Commander,” she added to Cullen, who merely nodded. “Now, Leliana - what were you recommending about cinched waistlines?”

Josephine and Leliana took their leave, animatedly discussing different belts and sashes their tailor could incorporate, and Shepard watched them head back to the War Room with no small amount of trepidation. “They’re not putting the women in dresses, are they?”

“As I understand it, that is currently the subject of a heated debate,” Cullen informed her, rubbing his forehead once more. “But that isn’t important - could you try not to be so antagonistic for once? You’re meant to be on the same side as Leliana, and she is not someone you want to alienate.”

“It was you who made the catty comment about forks.”

“That isn’t the same. All they want from you is a bit of background information - you could just tell them what they want to know. You do not always have to be so _difficult_.”

Out of all their discussions - genial and otherwise - throughout the course of their acquaintance, that was possibly the most infuriating thing he’d ever said to her. She’d told him more about herself than she had to anyone else in Thedas; he knew about Akuze, about Spectres, about Liara - Hell, she’d even once tried to explain the difference between biotics and magic to him. The problem was he never listened. “Why should I tell you anything?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. “I have told you plenty about me, and all that happens is I get called a Hedge Mage, or a pirate, or a liar. Even Leliana scoffed when I said about Corypheus bringing me to Thedas through a rift, which is _true_. So, fuck it. Once you all start showing me a bit more respect, I’ll answer your damn forms.”

She expected Cullen to argue back, but he didn’t; instead he looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, as though finally figuring out the answer to a particularly tricky logic puzzle. “I… have called you all those things, haven’t I?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maker. It really is a wonder you never tried to kill me on the way back to Kirkwall.”

“Believe me; I was tempted,” she muttered darkly, but checked herself with the internal reminder that, as he’d pointed out, they were on the same side now. “But, all things considered, I’m glad that I didn’t.” He smiled in response, eyes creasing at the corners as if ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’ was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him, and it almost made her feel bad for all the time she’d spent thinking of the best way to kill him. “So, if Trevelyan won’t make use of me - have you got any Commander jobs you’re looking to outsource? I can help train recruits, or run drills. Or plan manoeuvres. Or if you’ve got any missions not quite important enough for the Inquisitor—”

“I appreciate the offer, but I have everything under control,” he cut her off with a raise of his hand, and his dismissal wasn’t surprising, but it disappointed her all the same. “Why don’t you take a few days to relax? The Inquisitor will need you in the field soon enough, and you will want to be well rested.”

“I’m not really good at the whole ‘relaxing’ thing.”

“Nor I,” he admitted. “Then perhaps the sparring ring?”

“You’re offering to fight me?” Shepard asked, face lighting up with glee because, even though they were supposed to be on friendlier terms now, the thought of eviscerating him in a spar was still the most appealing pastime she could think of.

“I’m not going within four feet of _those_ ,” he said, indicating to her spiked elbows. “But the Iron Bull and Cassandra are always looking for sparring partners.”

“If I take them off, will you—”

“ _No_.”

“You’re such a coward!” she exclaimed. “You can just cancel my abilities if you’re so scared!”

“If you think you can goad me into a fight by calling me names, you’re sorely mistaken,” he told her, annoyingly smug in the face of her pout. 

“Fine. I’ll go and grind Bull into the ground instead, but it won’t be anywhere near as satisfying,” she said, and with a final emphatic huff she took her leave, heading into the fresh air and leaving Cullen to whatever self-important tasks she was undoubtedly interrupting.

“Try not to hurt him too badly!” she heard him call after her.

“No promises!” she shouted back over her shoulder, and for a moment she could’ve sworn she heard him laugh.

\---

Unfortunately, the two options suggested to her for sparring were both busy; Bull with his Chargers, and Cassandra with some novel which she refused to let Shepard read the back cover of. As such, she found herself - not for the first time since arriving at Skyhold - at a bit of a loose end. Sera was nowhere to be found, and Dagna was hard at work on her lightbulb, and Cullen had retreated to his office with strict instructions to the men on the door that he was not to be disturbed. She considered going to the library, but all the books there were very serious-looking things on magical theories and the Tevinter Imperium and which, quite frankly, made her head hurt a little. ‘Relaxing’, as Cullen had also suggested, was out of the question. Truth be told, Shepard didn’t really know how to relax; since the age of sixteen her life had been a constant stream of goals and targets with little respite in between. And that was how she liked it. It wasn’t that she needed to work, but she did need to be busy; even her shore leave had been filled with organised trips, her time on the brig spent reading old Earth literature, her days in the Circle passed plotting against the Templars. But now she was stuck, in a beautiful, boring castle, with nothing to do except await someone else’s instructions.

The only other thing she could think of - besides giving up entirely and allowing herself to be assimilated by the Virginia creepers - was to visit her horse at the stables, which… would probably take up twenty minutes, but at least it was _something_. She headed to the kitchens first though to arm herself with a treat for the creature, figuring feeding her might take up an extra five; ignoring the disapproving sideglances from the chef, she began to pick through various barrels of vegetables and bundles of fruit for an appropriate snack for her Mako. 

“Hello.” 

Shepard jumped, swivelling around to face the voice which interrupted her consideration of the merits of carrots versus apples, and found the strange boy with the big hat - Cole, she thought his name was? - stood behind her, arms laden with a dozen daggers. “Yes, it’s Cole. Thank you for remembering.”

“Hello, Cole,” she said, a little warily. “What are you doing with all the daggers?”

“Keeping them safe. Would you like to help?”

He didn’t wait for her answer; he turned on his heel, barely making a sound as he weaved through the cluttered kitchen and out a side door, and after a moment’s hesitation she followed him, placing her handful of vegetables back on the counter and jogging to catch up. “How exactly is this helping?” she asked as she drew level with him.

“People are scared,” he told her. “The fear brings more fighting, friends against friends, and the pain just gets worse. We need a place to hide them.”

“So you’re confiscating people’s weapons to stop them from killing each other here?” she surmised, and he nodded. “Fair enough. But you better not have my new daggers in that pile.”

“No. You don’t hurt until you have to.” He stopped abruptly as they entered a part of the castle Shepard had not yet seen; they were underground, possibly under the main hall, in a large, bare room that - save for the lit sconces - didn’t look as though anyone had been there in years. The stones underfoot were cracked and worn, cobwebs invaded the corners and dust motes hung heavily in the air, casting speckled shadows up the walls and across faded paintings of vistas she’d probably never see. “Here. Let’s look for somewhere.”

Shepard wasn’t convinced in his choice of hiding place - there didn’t seem to be anywhere to actually stash his daggers, unless he wanted to dump them on the floor - but after a few minutes of searching she found somewhere appropriate; in a smaller room filled with seemingly ancient bottles of wine she located a barrel which, on prising the lid open, she was pleased to find empty.

“What about here?” she called over her shoulder, flinching as she turned to find him already stood next to her. Fuck, he was _quiet_.

“Yes, good,” he agreed, tipping the daggers into the barrel and sealing it shut once more. “If you find any more, put them here. We can keep them safe.”

Shepard smiled at him, oddly pleased at their small act of helpfulness, and she found herself warming to the boy despite his eccentricities. No, that wasn’t right - he wasn’t really a boy, was he? “So, how does a spirit end up working for the Inquisition?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her; the only spirit she’d ever met before was Justice, who’d been far more prickly towards her. Cole, she figured, would probably be more willing to answer questions, but he merely shrugged, hopping up to perch on the lid of their barrel. 

“How does a Spectre end up in Thedas?”

Here, alone in an abandoned room, away from the bustle of Skyhold, it didn’t seem quite so unsettling to be with someone who could read her as Cole could. Instead of a confrontation it felt like a confession, a shared burden, a whisper in the night which would never be uttered in waking hours; really, it was a relief, to finally find someone who would - if not understand her past - at least believe her when she spoke of it. “Do you know _everything_ about me?” she asked. “The war, the Reapers, that time I had to fight my own clone?”

“You didn’t have to push her,” he said, sunken eyes reprimanding as he looked down at her.

“She tried to steal my ship,” Shepard retorted. “So I take that as a yes?”

“No,” Cole shook his head. “I see what hurts, and what helps. Like… untangling a ball of knotted strings. You have a lot of knots, but it’s not everything.”

“And you want to fix me?” she asked, unable to catch the scorn in her voice in time, but he either didn’t notice it or didn’t let it bother him.

“I want to help,” was his simple reply. “Here.” He pulled out three crumpled sheets of paper from his jacket and handed them to Shepard; scanning them quickly she could see that they were all field reports, addressed to none other than the Inquisition’s Commander.

“Have you been stealing Rutherford’s paperwork? Because if your idea of helping me is irritating him, I’m _totally_ on board.”

He didn’t look at her when he spoke next; instead his eyes remained trained on the papers in her hand, transfixed as though they were revealing some great mystery to him. “Hands shake, head pounds, veins still burning blue. He doesn’t want to ask for help, but you can. You know war, even if you wish you didn’t.”

There was something about those words - and the soft, lamenting way the spirit spoke them - that made Shepard’s heart clench. She knew the burden of command all too well, how it gnawed and needled until there was nothing left but the title, but Cole’s words - combined with what Dagna had intimated earlier - seemed to go deeper than that, and it worried her. “Is… he alright?” she asked tentatively, because despite it all - despite his inflexibility and dourness and the fact that _he’d stabbed her_ \- the thought of Cullen struggling, _hurting_ , was one that she couldn’t bear.

“He’s better than he was, but the song still aches inside him. You can help - you already have.” She arched an eyebrow, not quite sure in what way she was supposed to have helped Cullen; aside from the two times she’d saved his life, she’d been a thorn in his side from the very first moment they’d met. She was sure he’d agree with her on that. Cole, no doubt sensing her lack of comprehension, continued. “He saw you, branded and broken, and it hurt him. It wasn’t a solution, because you weren’t a problem. Now he can see the others, too.”

Shepard frowned, still not quite able to translate Cole’s cryptic words. “I don’t really understand what you’re saying. Is he unwell?”

“He’s better,” he repeated, and she sighed, looking down at the papers once more. They weren’t anything particularly important - reports from several scouts asking for advice and further instructions for strongholds in Ferelden - but if they kept her busy and Cullen less so she didn’t mind giving him a hand. There was just one problem.

“I can help answer these, but even if I do I don’t think he’s going to listen.” Cole didn’t reply, and as she glanced up from the documents she realised he was gone; she pivoted, eyes whipping around the room to locate the spirit, but he was nowhere to be found. “Well, I guess that conversation’s over,” she muttered to herself, but her attention was already back on the reports in her hands; apparently the Inquisition were planning to set up watchtowers in the Hinterlands, but the locations they had listed were - in her experience camping there - overrun by hostile wildlife and bandits once the sun set. 

Folding the papers neatly and placing them in one of pouches at her belt, she nodded to herself, pleased to - if nothing else - finally have something to do that day. She’d write down her suggestions, and present them to Cullen in the morning. He could listen to her if he wanted - if not, at least she’d be able to say _I told you so_ when his towers were mobbed by wolves.


	24. Chapter 24

If Shepard days were sparse, Cullen’s were the polar opposite; his schedule was unrelenting, his role as Commander consuming every waking hour, and in truth those were preferable to the hours he spent asleep. He’d go to bed sometime after midnight, collapsing from exhaustion into his sheets and inevitably having forgotten his evening meal, only to be startled awake several hours later by demons and dead comrades. Nightmares were not something he was unfamiliar with; he’d been plagued with them for years in the Circle, but the vicious edge they’d developed since his abstinence from lyrium was almost intolerable. Before they’d been blurred around the edges, painful but quickly forgotten when he woke; now the horrors he faced bore down on him with renewed clarity, images scorched on his mind even as he tried to work. The withdrawal process only compounded his suffering; he had to work doubly hard to focus through the headaches and the hot sweats and the Maker-forsaken _cravings_ , with each new day providing little relief from the last. It made him irritable, terse, and generally poor company, and like at Kirkwall he remained somewhat apart from his colleagues. He was occasionally browbeaten into a game of chess with Dorian or a spar with Cassandra, and of course he could never escape the daily meetings around the War Table, but on the whole he avoided the company of others.

It would help the pounding of his head immensely if Skyhold wasn’t quite so loud; every night the sound of merriment drifted up to his office from the Herald’s Rest, and he could barely think one morning as he inventoried the latest weapons shipment with the quartermaster. He missed what the young man was telling him, twice, on account of some fools cheering loudly in the courtyard just outside, and when a loud _whoop_ caused the quartermaster to nearly drop the blade on his Commander’s foot, Cullen resolved to put an end to the noise once and for all. 

Wrenching the door open and stepping outside he immediately located the source of the racket, and _why_ was it not in the least bit surprising that Shepard was at the root of it? She stood opposite Bull in the sparring ring, fully armoured but mercifully forgoing her spiked couters, a predatory smirk across her face as she sized up the Qunari; Bull was giving her much the same look, and it was clear both thought they were about to make short work of the other. Cullen cursed under his breath as his eyes swept the crowd and realised that the blighted woman had managed to distract half of Skyhold from their duties; in addition to the Chargers, who were vociferously cheering for their boss, there were a number of Cullen’s own troops present - who were meant to be training in the valley, damnit. Sera was perched on the ring fence, a pile of gold in her lap, accepting a handful of coins from Cassandra of all people, and the fact that Shepard had managed to corrupt even the Seeker was the final straw; pushing through the crowd he made his way through to Sera and Cassandra, intent on putting an end to their nonsense.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded when he reached them; Sera looked up from her transaction and shot him a toothy grin.

“Hey, Jackboot! Come to place a bet?”

“ _No_ ,” he growled. “This sparring ring is for training purposes, not for you and Shepard to scam my troops out of their gold.”

“Well - too bad, we’re playing,” Sera shrugged, immediately losing interest in him. “Go be uptight in your office.”

He glared at her, irritation sparking at being called _uptight_. He wasn’t uptight; he was just the only one in the Inquisition who took anything seriously. “I’m calling this off,” he told her, turning to address the crowd, but was stopped by Cassandra’s firm hand on his shoulder.

“Cullen - look how your troops are enjoying themselves,” she said, indicating to the crowd, who were growing more animated by the minute. “I do not think calling off this spar would be good for morale.”

“They are supposed to be _training_.”

“And they will resume their training after. But let them forget about the war for ten minutes.” He knew Cassandra had a point - he could see for themselves how happy they appeared, and how well they were getting along - but he was too stubborn to admit as much out loud. “Come on,” she said encouragingly. “Tell us - who do you think will win?”

“Shepard,” he said without even needing to think about it, already intimately familiar with how the woman could handle Qunari.

“Another five on Shepard!” Sera shouted out to the crowd.

“Wha— _no_ , I’m not—”

“Any final takers?” she yelled over his protestations, whilst also sticking her hand out at him and making a grabbing gesture. He groaned, but reached into his pocket nonetheless and handed her two gold coins; she accepted them, though he distinctly heard her murmur ‘cheap git’ as she did.

“Shepard is a bad influence on you,” he muttered to Cassandra as he turned his attention to the ring; Bull was receiving a last-minute pep talk from the elven mage in his company, whereas Shepard was bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly eager to start. 

“Shepard just wanted a fight, and I just wanted to watch,” Cassandra frowned, voice harder, indignant at his assertion. “Sera turned it into a spectacle.”

“Of course. Which is why you just bet half your gold on the outcome.” She glared at him, with a look which had sent grown men running in the past, but he merely chuckled at her sour expression. “Who is your money on?”

“They are both insufferably self-assured. I hope they collide headfirst and knock themselves out.”

Cullen snorted, because that _would_ be a rather entertaining sight, even if it deprived him of a winning bet. “20 to 1 on knocking each other out!” Sera announced to the crowd. “Good odds if you wanna hedge it!”

“Get _on_ with it,” was the sharp response from Cassandra, and Sera’s grin widened.

“Right! On the count of three. You two ready?”

“Ready!” Bull nodded, pulling his maul from his back. “You’re getting crushed, little mage.”

“Sure,” Shepard responded lazily, hands on her hips, not even bothering to prepare her magic. Cassandra was right; she _was_ insufferably cocky. “Try not to cry when you get a faceful of dirt.”

“One, two… three!”

Bull was the first to act on Sera’s call, letting out a war cry as he raised his maul, and Cullen might have been worried in his choice of sparring weapon if he were against anyone else; as it was, Shepard didn’t give him the opportunity for a single strike. She erupted into that brilliant blue hue of hers before charging, as he’d seen her do before, too fast to be anything more than a blur; she shot across the ring and collided with Bull head-on, sending the mountain of a Qunari toppling to the ground. The crowd roared, so loud that it drummed on Cullen’s skull and made him wince, as Shepard’s blue aura faded and she took a self-indulgent bow, grinning from ear to ear as Bull lay - as predicted - face-down in the dirt.

“That’s it?!” Krem yelped from the other side of the ring. “Come on, Chief; you didn’t even put up a fight!”

“You get in here if you think you can do a better job!” Bull wheezed, pushing himself onto his back and clutching his side. “ _Fuck_!”

“Best of three?” Shepard offered, chuckling at the Bull’s long groan of a response. “Come on, I’ll give you a chance; why don’t we turn this into a good old fashioned fistfight?”

Somehow, Bull found it in his reserves to gracelessly stagger back to his feet, to the ecstatic cheering of the Chargers. “You’re on,” he told her, kicking his maul to the edge of the ring and raising his fists, and Shepard raised hers too as he closed the gap between them.

“She cannot be serious,” Cassandra muttered, transfixed by the fight, as Cullen considered how so very _Shepard_ it was to throw a win just for an opportunity to show off. He knew how good she was with her magic, and with her daggers, but a bare-knuckle brawl with a Qunari warrior was pushing it even for her. She had strength, yes, but she was half Bull’s size with half the reach; her strength meant nothing if she couldn’t get close enough to use it.

Bull’s swings were powerful, but slow, and Shepard dodged each with ease, ducking and dancing just out of the way of his clenched fists. Indeed, for the first minute she didn’t attack at all, and Cullen initially thought it was - as he’d feared - due to her lack of reach, but then he realised what also must be dawning on Bull: she was toying with him. He was already tired from Shepard’s initial charge, and each miss only frustrated him and further drained his energy; Shepard on the other hand looked like she could go ten rounds, pacing a circle around Bull in a way which was surely making him dizzy. With a snarl Bull unleashed a particularly vicious punch, fist sailing within an inch to the left of Shepard’s head, and that was when she struck; ducking under his outstretched arm and twisting around him once more, her fists connected hard with his flanks, right then left, targeting his kidneys with startling precision. Bull teetered on the spot, just managing to stay upright as he turned to face her once more, and he too must have known that the fight was almost over. In a final, desperate move he took three paces back then charged at her, fast but not as fast as Shepard; in one smooth motion she dodged to the left and landed another blow to his flank. The force was enough to finally overbalance Bull, and for the second time in five minutes he crashed to the floor to the sound of the crowd’s thunderous applause.

Cullen also clapped, once, before catching himself and glaring at his traitorous hands.

“Alright, that’s enough!” he barked to the crowd, turning his scowl to the nearest of his men. “Get back to work, all of you!”

“Nah, winner stays on! Who’s up next?”

That statement from Sera dispersed the crowd better than Cullen ever could have hoped to; everyone looked thoroughly uncomfortable at the thought of being picked as Shepard’s next victim, his troops muttering amongst themselves before sounding a retreat back to what they were _supposed_ to be doing. A few of his braver men approached Sera first for their winnings, avoiding their Commander’s eyes as they did.

“Tell your wusses they can collect from me later,” Sera said to Cullen. “Shep! Your cut!”

Shepard, who had pulled Bull to his feet and was now chatting with him and his Chargers, looked up at her name being called; she grinned, approaching the elf to collect her ill-gotten gold. “Thanks,” she said as Sera threw a small pouch of coins at her; she caught it deftly with one hand, tying it onto her belt.

“And here,” Sera said, holding out four coins for Cullen; he grit his teeth as he accepted them, doing his best to ignore the way Shepard’s lips twisted into a smirk at the transaction.

“Awh, you bet on me?”

“I said you would win,” he corrected. “Sera then extorted gold out of me.”

“You won, so stop moaning. Good match, Shep! Next time we’ll get you in against Beardy. Or… Cassandra?” she suggested, looking hopefully at the Seeker.

“I will spar you, Shepard,” Cassandra nodded. “But you will need a weapon; do not think you can use the same magic tricks and back-alley brawling with me.”

“It’s a date.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” was Cassandra’s response to that, turning on her heel and leaving the group without so much as a parting word, and Cullen felt a rush of sympathy for the Seeker, knowing only too well how it felt to be victim of Shepard’s relentless teasing.

“Stop flirting with her.”

“Don’t get jealous,” she returned, redirecting her energy to her favourite target, and he felt his cheeks burn as Sera cackled. How was it possible that, after all this time, she was still able to make him blush? 

“I am _not_ —you have no idea how uncomfortable you make people!”

“Not me,” Sera said, propping an elbow on Shepard’s shoulder. “I think she’s funny.”

“Of course you do.”

“He thinks I’m funny too; he just won’t admit it. Hey - did you hear about the Circle apprentice who got stuck in the Fade?” she asked, an old joke that had circulated both the Gallows and Kinloch Hold, and he _knew_ he was rising to her bait but he just couldn’t resist responding. He’d show them who was uptight.

“Yes. The experience was _harrowing_.”

Shepard’s eyes lit up in delight, elbowing Sera excitedly in the ribs. “He knows a joke! Sera! Alert the Templars; he’s been possessed!”

“I’ve got a better one,” Sera said. “So a Templar goes into a brothel, right, and—”

“I have work to do,” he said abruptly, turning from them and marching back towards his office before they could see his cheeks darken further, because that was another joke he unfortunately knew the punchline to.

“Hold up!” Shepard called after him, but he ignored her and quickened his pace; he was halfway up the stone steps by the Herald’s Rest before she caught him, overtaking him on the stairs and stopping dead in front of him. “Stop running away from me - I have something for you,” she told him, reaching into her breast pocket and pulling out a few sheets of folded paper; she waved them at him, and he scowled as he noticed the Inquisition’s insignia in the top corner.

“Are those—what are you doing with my reports?!”

“Cole gave them to me,” she told him. “I don’t know where he got them from, but anyway - I’ve answered them for you.” She held them out for him, but he didn’t accept them; instead he narrowed his eyes at her, trying to figure out how exactly she was trying to torment him this time.

“And _why_ are you answering them?”

Shepard tutted. “Because despite what you might think, I didn’t make up the title of Commander for myself. I earned it, at least in part, by being an extremely capable tactician. And - well, I’m bored, and want to help, so just read them,” she said, brandishing them at him again, but he still hesitated to take them from her.

“With all due respect, Shepard, I doubt paperwork is really your forte.”

Her eyes flashed at that, fingers flexing around the sheets of paper and crinkling the documents slightly, though she managed to speak with a forced calm. “With _no_ due respect, Rutherford - I went through two years of academy training, two years of special forces training, have the highest proficiency designation in the Alliance and was the first human ever to be given Spectre status. Somewhere, amongst all of that, I learnt how to do fucking paperwork,” she said, shoving the papers into his chest with such force he had no choice but to accept them. With a sigh, he straightened the papers and began to read the first document, assuming it would be sufficient to make her leave; however she remained in front of him, looking at him expectantly and occasionally leaning forward to reread her missive, as if attempting to track how far he’d read.

“Why don’t you just brief me?” he offered instead, too distracted by her observation of him to form a measured response on what she’d written; she nodded, moving to stand with her feet slightly apart and clasping her hands behind her back, and she looked so professional that he was almost convinced she was mocking him. 

“Your men are trying to set up watchtowers in Hafter’s Woods, which is fine - you know, if you want them to spend their time fighting off wolves rather than actually building. If you don’t though, I’ve advised them to try Dead Ram Grove to the north; you can see for days up there. Also your men in the Fallow Mire are running low on supplies, but with the trade route to Gwaren so close by I’ve suggested they set up a wagon so they can start being self-sufficient. Lastly there’s a tourney in some provincial part of Orlais that one or two of your more eager recruits want to take part in - I’ve told them to get back to work, however I think you should send one of the mages as a representative.”

Her suggestions were thoughtful, measured, sensible, so much so that he was surprised she had come up with them; in the Circle she’d always seemed impulsive, speaking before thinking, presenting a risk through rash actions rather than carefully-considered assaults. Of course, it was entirely possible that she’d presented herself as such to lull them all into a false sense of security. None of this he voiced, however, sure it would just rile her up.

“Very well,” he nodded. “I will countersign what you have written, but then I will take them to Leliana to send.”

“Seriously? Just like that?” she asked, apparently just as surprised by his quick acceptance as he’d been by what she’d offered.

“Everything you have said is completely reasonable. It would be foolish of me to turn down your suggestions just because I did not come up with them.”

“Well… thanks,” she said. “To be honest, I thought you’d say no to the mage one.”

“It’s a good idea,” Cullen admitted, not adding that he would never have thought of it. Despite Cullen’s initial reservations on the matter, the Inquisitor was keen to show that the mages were allies rather than conscripts; asking them to represent the Inquisition in such a way would make that clear to both Orlais and the mages themselves. “I shall ask Grand-Enchanter Fiona if she wishes to send a champion from her Knight-Enchanters to— wait. Is this a ploy to make me send _you_ as our representative?”

Shepard crinkled her nose in response, as if participating in a tourney was the most degrading pastime in all of Thedas. “I think some Orlesian renaissance fair is a bit beneath me.”

“Indeed; I doubt there will be any Qunari for you to brawl with in Orlais. Best stay here for that.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “So - anything else I can help with?”

“No,” was his reflexive reply, far too accustomed at this point to taking on everything himself; her face fell in response, and she looked so disappointed that, even if she hadn’t just demonstrated her usefulness, he probably would have backtracked on his answer anyway. “I mean… yes,” he corrected himself. “If you really do wish to help then… it would be useful to siphon off some of my reports. Simple things, like supply lines, resource gathering. Ensuring our camps are running smoothly. Is that something you can handle?”

He expected her to protest over being assigned such comparatively trivial tasks, but she didn’t; instead she nodded, smile lighting up her face once more. “Of course.”

“Good. If you accompany me to my office I have a number of missives you may be able to assist with. And - thank you,” he added, the Commander tone he’d taken with her softening, because maybe - just maybe - if she focused her energy on work rather than loudly distracting his troops, his head might stop hurting quite as much. “This does help.”

\---

Cullen remained busy over the next few weeks, but not unmanageably so. As it turned out, Shepard’s assistance couldn’t have come at a better time; the Inquisitor had claimed a Keep during his mission in Crestwood, and restoring it to a functional base of operations was straightforward but time-consuming work. He’d thought Shepard would quickly grow bored of the menial tasks he assigned her, but every morning at 0800 hours she appeared at his desk with a neat stack of completed papers and a disconcertingly formal stance. Initially she verbally relayed all her reports, but he quickly realised that was an exercise in futility; her work was always exemplary, her plans for staffing and supplying the new fort logical and well thought-out, and soon enough he was merely giving her paperwork a cursory glance before signing it off. There was a small dispute each day where she tried to wrest more control from him, but it was a power struggle he was accustomed to from her, and one he suspected was based in habit more than anything else. 

By the time the Inquisitor returned to Skyhold their new Keep was up and running, with only minor pieces of renovation still outstanding. Trevelyan had been longer than anticipated in Crestwood, and the trip appeared to have taken its toll on him; he arrived back at their base early one morning without fanfare, clothes dirty and hair tousled and his usually neat beard in dire need of pruning. Still, the first thing he did was call a meeting around the War Table, tired but determined as he relayed his findings to his advisers.

“It’s bad,” Trevelyan told them, bleary eyes trying to focus on the map in front of them. “All the Wardens in Orlais have started to hear the Calling - they all think they’re dying. Stroud thinks Corypheus is causing it.”

“But why? What does Corypheus gain from this?” Leliana asked, aghast at the development, a hint of worry cracking through the mask usually wore.

“The Grey Wardens are a formidable army, and they’ve succeeded in imprisoning Corypheus once before,” Cullen mused. “Corypheus no doubt wishes to weaken them by spreading panic through their ranks.”

“But surely this would just double their efforts against Corypheus,” Leliana persisted. “He must have some other reason for this.”

“I suspect so,” Trevelyan agreed, distractedly running a hand through his hair and mussing it further. “But the Wardens are running scared, and the Warden-Commander is planning some blood magic ritual which she thinks will put an end to the Blights. I don’t know how it’s all tied up yet, but I do know they’re meeting in the Western Approach - we need to get there, quickly.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered, hand reflexively tightening on his pommel at the mention of blood magic. “I understand you wish to investigate this yourself, but perhaps we should send a small retinue of Templars with you.”

“They won’t be necessary,” the Inquisitor replied. “Cassandra will suffice.”

“And who else will you be taking?” Josephine asked, looking just as concerned as Cullen felt at the prospect of their leader running off to fight blood mages.

“Dorian and Shepard.”

It was a reasonable selection, Cullen knew that; he usually objected to the Inquisitor weighting a team with too many mages, but Cassandra made up for it with the strength of two warriors, plus Shepard was quick enough with her daggers to double as a rogue. But it also briefly, selfishly, occurred to him that Trevelyan was taking with him the people in Skyhold who Cullen liked the most. It would be a month before he saw them again, a month without the small snippets of socialisation they pressed into his life, and despite how he groused about it - about Cassandra’s fussing and Shepard’s teasing and Dorian’s wanton theft of his chess pieces - he knew he’d feel their absence once they left. But that was all irrelevant. The Inquisitor needed them in the field; that was far more important than whatever relief Cullen felt from their presence.

“Unless there’s any other business, I’ll head straight out,” the Inquisitor said, drawing Cullen’s attention back to the conversation and away from his internal musings; he frowned, taking a good look at their leader once more. Trevelyan, for the months he’d known him, had always presented himself with the utmost of care; a result of his noble upbringing, Cullen assumed, and whatever prior schooling he’d had in the Game. But today he looked worn, run-down, chewing his bottom lip as his eyes darted back and forth between map markers; there was a palpable anxiety bubbling just beneath his surface, and it worried Cullen.

“There are some pieces which require your attention,” Leliana told him. “With our recent growth, things have built up somewhat in your absence; it may take several hours.”

“Then I’ll leave again after that.”

“Inquisitor, you look tired,” Josephine ventured. “Perhaps you should stay in Skyhold for the night; you can leave early in the morning.”

“We have to move on this,” he shook his head vigorously. “If we don’t act quickly, and they go through with whatever this ritual is…”

“If they plan to use blood magic, you will need to be at your best to face it,” Cullen said, taking a firmer tone with him before remembering he was speaking with his boss. “Josephine is right, Inquisitor; you should rest for one evening.”

Begrudgingly, the Inquisitor relented, though he spent a further hour around the War Table before he agreed to get some rest; he valiantly fought against his drooping eyelids as they discussed reports of darkspawn and implementing Grey Warden treaties and, to Cullen’s consternation, a request from Sera for bees. There was still more to be done, but Leliana insisted it could wait until Trevelyan wasn’t asleep on his feet, and so just before midday the group traipsed out of the War Room and back to their respective work - and to bed, in the Inquisitor’s case. 

Word had clearly gotten out of the Inquisitor’s return; the main hall was thick with nobles and members of the Chantry, all of whom rapidly turned their heads when the door to Josephine’s office opened and who looked severely disappointed to see only Cullen and Leliana emerge. Shepard, he suspected, had also heard the news; he spotted her perched on Varric’s desk, chatting easily with the dwarf and pointedly not looking in the direction of the War Room. She was doing such a good job of ignoring them that Cullen almost thought he’d be able to get past her, but of course he couldn’t; she waited until he’d reached the door of the rotunda before looking up and calling out his name with surprise.

“Rutherford! There you are!” Shepard exclaimed, as if she hadn’t known exactly where he was. “I left my reports on your desk; I figured you’d overslept. Or died.”

“Alas, no. We had an early meeting with the Inquisitor.”

“Oh, he’s back?” she said, trying and failing to appear nonchalant; Cullen didn’t bother to point out that she _knew_ he was back due to Varric’s presence. “How was Crestwood?”

Varric shook his head and chuckled at her pitiful attempt at indifference, which earned him a nudge in the ribs with her boot. “Not good,” was all Cullen said in response, keen not to say too much in a room full of prying eyes and pricked ears. “He plans to leave again tomorrow morning.”

“I see. And did he happen to say who he’s taking with him?”

Cullen really knew better, but the opportunity to aggravate her was too good to miss. Besides, she seemed to sustain her life force by teasing him; he deserved just this one. “Cassandra, Dorian and Bull.”

“ _What_?!” she spluttered, all pretence of detachment dropped as she jumped to her feet. “Oh, that is the fucking _limit_. Where is he? The War Room still?” she asked, not even waiting for an answer as she began to storm off in that direction; Cullen grabbed hold of her arm to try and stop her, because her pummelling the Inquisitor was _not_ the outcome he wanted.

“Maker, Shepard, I’m _joking_ ,” he said desperately as she tried to shrug out of his grip. “You’re on the team; I was just having you on.”

She stopped struggling at that, turning to face him with narrowed eyes, and Cullen dropped his hand as a brief but vivid vision of her throwing him off the battlements flashed before his eyes. “I’m on the team?” she echoed.

“You’re on the team.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she exclaimed, punching the air as a broad grin broke across her face. “Where are we going?”

“The Western Approach,” he told her, before adding at her quizzical expression, “it’s a desert in south Orlais.”

“Ooh, sounds exotic.”

“It’s not; it’s a lot of sand in the ass-end of nowhere,” Varric corrected her. “Is he taking me?”

“No,” Cullen shook his head. “It’s her, Dorian and Cassandra.”

“What a shame. Have fun, Flash.”

“Oh, I will,” Shepard replied, not in the least bit put off by Varric’s disinclination. “I’m going to go pack.”

“You two seem friendlier,” Varric noted as Shepard scurried back to her dorm; he smirked up at Cullen, obviously tickled by the newfound civility between Cullen and his former charge.

“Yes, it has been several weeks since one of us physically assaulted the other,” Cullen retorted. “We’re practically best friends.”

“No need to be so touchy, Curly; I was just making a casual observation. It’s what we storytellers do.”

“It would be more useful if you told me about Crestwood,” Cullen said, partly to change the subject, but also because Trevelyan’s appearance in the War Room still niggled at him. “How was the Inquisitor?”

The smirk from Varric’s face dropped, concern quickly clouding his features. “He’s pushing himself hard; I’d say it’s just starting to sink in how serious this whole Inquisiting business is. He’s thinks it’s up to him to save every last person in Thedas.”

“It may well be; he is the only one with the power to close the Breach,” Cullen pointed out.

“Yeah, but more people will die before that happens, and the way he talks you’d think he’s responsible for every single one of them. I’ll tell Sparkler to keep an eye on him out in the Approach. Maybe you should tell the Seeker, too.”

“Can you not speak to Cassandra yourself?”

“I can speak to her, but she can’t speak to _me_ without throwing pieces of furniture,” Varric grumbled, and it was Cullen’s turn to smirk.

“I think she’s gotten over your little deception regarding the Champion.”

“I’m not taking any chances. And if you see her, _don’t_ tell her I’m in the Rest with Hawke,” Varric added, holstering Bianca to his back - which Cullen hoped he wasn’t carrying to defend against Cassandra - and leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts.

He’d talk to Cassandra later, and Shepard too. If nothing else, it was reassuring to know the Inquisitor would be in the field with such a capable team.


	25. Chapter 25

“Do it again.”

“I’m not here to perform tricks for you, Dorian.”

“My dear lady, it is a rare day that I am impressed by someone other than myself. You should feel honoured.”

With an emphatic sigh Shepard put down her plate of food and stood once more, before clambering up the ruined tower which overlooked their campsite in the Western Approach. It was the third time that evening Dorian had asked for a demonstration of her biotics, having observed her float down from a ledge earlier that day and, despite how he pestered her whilst she was trying to eat, his enthusiasm for her talents was a breath of fresh air. In Kirkwall she’d been shunned for her strange abilities, mages and Templars alike afraid of her, but Dorian was fascinated in the face of powers he’d never seen before; he questioned her, often, on both theoretical and practical aspects of her skills, eager to learn more about what he’d known in an instant was not magic. After what felt like an eternity of suspicion and fear, finding someone like him was a relief.

“And talk through your process this time!” Dorian called up to her as she reached the top of the tower. “I want to understand exactly how you’re manipulating these _mass effect fields_ to levitate.”

“Why?” she called back. “It’s not like you can copy it.”

“No, but I could extrapolate the principles and apply them to force magic. Your talents are not entirely dissimilar to mine, after all.” 

She wasn’t convinced he’d be able to replicate her abilities, but she wouldn’t deny him of the opportunity to try. “Okay, so what I do first is create a mass-lowering field,” she said, sparking up a blue field around her. “And then I just…” 

Unsure how to explain any further, she simply jumped off the tower, teeth clenched as she fought to maintain a reasonable velocity in her fall. In truth, Shepard knew that her ability to float to the ground was nowhere near perfect; her biotics had been honed for speed and force, with high spikes and quick cooldowns, and it just seemed so counterintuitive to use that energy to slow herself down. Instead of the elegant descent that Samara had mastered, Shepard’s technique was reminiscent of falling with a malfunctioning jetpack; her field sputtered as she tried to adjust her trajectory, and though she landed safely it was with none of the grace of her Justicar friend. Dorian, however, didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“Marvellous! Cassandra, did you see that?” Dorian called over his shoulder to the Seeker, who was reading a book by her tent. She merely grunted, not looking up from her tome. “But you didn’t really explain it,” he continued. “For instance, _how_ does one create a mass-lowering field?”

Shepard shrugged. “Same way you get your arm to move; your brain sends a signal down your spine and your body follows the orders. I just have extra bits in my spine to order about.”

“So it’s intrinsic rather than extrinsic. Interesting. Another question: if I were to fall, would you be able to create the same field around me?”

“I don’t know,” Shepard admitted; she could Throw people fine, but softening their fall was not something she’d ever attempted. “Do you want to try it?”

“Ah, no,” he shook his head, looking up at the tower she’d just fallen from with a frown. “But perhaps… Cassandra, would you like to take part in a test?” he asked, turning back to their companion once more.

“No,” was her response, still not looking up from her book.

“Pity. Then perhaps the Inquisitor? Where is he?”

“The Inquisitor is writing to update Commander Cullen on our movements,” Cassandra informed them. “He shall not be throwing himself from a building this evening.”

“Rutherford ruining the fun yet again, I see,” Shepard sighed. “Come on, Cass. If anyone can walk off that fall it’s you; you’re even tougher than me, and I’m sixty percent metal.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Commander,” Cassandra replied, though the upward twist of her lips told Shepard it was getting her somewhere.

“Please,” she persisted, deliberately drawing the word out. “You’re so strong and brave and noble.” Cassandra laughed, but still shook her head, and Dorian tutted.

“Let’s forget her. She’s evidently far too engrossed in the plot-hole infested smut she believes is literature.”

Cassandra finally looked up from her book, but only in order to fix Dorian with an icy glare. “It _is_ literature, and Shepard enjoyed the first chapter.” 

‘Enjoyed’ was perhaps too strong a term, but Cassandra was so enamoured with the book that Shepard couldn’t bring herself to criticise it. It had taken a considerable amount of pestering for her to finally relent and reveal to Shepard what she read so furtively in their tent each night; to Shepard’s great surprise it was a romance novel by none other than Varric, and to her greater surprise ‘romance novel’ turned out to be a euphemism for cliché-heavy erotica. It was not the choice of genre she would’ve expected from the Seeker, but Shepard found it endlessly endearing.

“I hope that’s not true,” Dorian frowned. “I thought our new Commander would be of more refined taste than that drivel.”

Shepard shrugged. “I liked the bit where the Knight-Captain got nailed in the barracks.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra grunted, ignoring Dorian’s guffaw. “I will not lend you the next instalment if you insist on being so vulgar.”

Shepard grinned as Cassandra turned back to her book, a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks as she frowned down at the pages. Friendship - or something close to it - had been surprisingly easy with the Seeker. Whilst some warriors may have bristled at the introduction of another heavy-hitter onto their team, Cassandra was more dignified than that; she showed nothing but respect for Shepard’s abilities, complimentary of her melee technique and frequently addressing her by her title, and likewise Shepard found her determined and fierce in a way she couldn’t help but admire. As they travelled they recounted their training and offered tips to each other on the best way to handle certain opponents; on the battlefield they worked best separately, methodically picking off their enemies rather than synchronising their abilities, each of their kill counts higher than their male teammates combined. Trevelyan led them and Dorian made her laugh, but it was Cassandra who made her feel like a soldier again, and Shepard was endlessly grateful to her for that.

One of the tents rustled, and from it emerged Trevelyan, brow creased as he hastily folded up his map. With every passing day he managed to look a little more worn, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed; Cullen had even taken Shepard to one side before they’d set off and asked her to ‘keep an eye’ on him, though how she was supposed to do that was beyond her. He’d been more distant since his return from Crestwood, pushing them further each day and rarely spending time with them once they’d finally set up camp; the few times she’d tried to engage him in conversation he’d brushed her off and quickly retreated back to his tent. She knew that saving the world was a tricky job, but he seemed to be making it especially hard for himself.

“Inquisitor. Finished your letter?”

“Hmm?” Trevelyan replied, distractedly looking at the sky rather than at Cassandra. “Ah— no. I’ve changed my mind; we should move this evening.”

“The sun’s already setting,” Shepard pointed out. “It’ll be dark by the time we get there.”

“You’re the one who keeps moaning about how you’re freckling in the sun.”

“We can’t all be bronzed Gods like you, Pavus,” she muttered, self-consciously rubbing at her burnt neck and immediately regretting doing so. _Freckling_ was a rather kind way of phrasing what the weather was doing to her skin; freckles had exploded over the bridge of her nose and cheeks, and the rest of her was red raw and peeling. She should’ve borrowed Cole’s hat. “And we can’t storm into a potential blood magic ritual in the middle of the night; we won’t be able to see anyone flanking us, and they’ll have us surrounded in seconds.”

“The Commander is right,” Cassandra agreed. “It would be best to wait until daytime. For all we know we could be walking straight into a trap.”

“And what if by the time we arrive they’ve already carried out this ritual?” 

“Hawke’s staking out the tower. She’ll send word if things go sideways overnight.” He looked unconvinced despite her reassurances, so she persisted. “Why don’t you come out of your tent and spend some time with us? We can play cards or tell stories, or Cassandra could do a dramatic reading from her book.”

“No,” the Inquisitor shook his head as Cassandra threw her book over her shoulder and shot a pointed glare at Shepard. “If we’re to delay I might as well make the most of the evening; I still have dossiers of the Winter Palace guests to learn.”

“But—”

“We’ll move at sunrise,” he cut off Shepard’s protest, already halfway back inside his tent. “Goodnight.”

“He worries me,” Shepard muttered as the tent flap fluttered closed.

“And me,” Cassandra agreed. “He was not like this at Haven.”

“Mm; he got very serious in Crestwood all of a sudden,” Dorian added. “Barely spoke two words to us on the way back.”

“Anything that might have set him off?”

Dorian considered Shepard’s question for a moment before replying. “That drowned village bothered him. Discovering how the mayor had condemned his townspeople to death.”

“Perhaps he is concerned about the corruptibility of power,” Cassandra mused.

“Or maybe he’s realised he might have to make a decision like that some day,” Shepard countered.

“I read the reports,” Cassandra frowned. “The mayor’s actions were inexcusable.”

“Not really. What he did took guts.” 

“He slaughtered people who’d placed their trust in him,” Dorian said, aghast, as both he and Cassandra turned to look at her with horrified expressions, and irritation prickled inside her at their disapproval. 

“Those people were dead long before they drowned; his actions saved the entire village from being wiped out by the Blight. Unfortunately some people are destined to perform the ‘inexcusable’ so that everyone else can live long enough to judge them for it.”

She realised she’d been raising her voice, hand gestures becoming more animated as she fought to defend someone who’d reminded her of the worst decisions she’d made, and she cut herself off abruptly as she awkwardly cleared her throat. “Can I suggest Shepard is _not_ the one to offer our Inquisitor a pep-talk?” Dorian said, voice light in an attempt to break the tension.

“Fine; you go. Tell him the Maker will send winged nugs to help him with all his difficult decisions.”

“I will go,” Cassandra cut in before Dorian could offer a retort. “Try not to kill yourselves jumping from buildings in my absence.”

Cassandra excused herself, slipping into the Inquisitor’s tent to offer words of wisdom Shepard was sure would not help. Dorian sighed, gently nudging Shepard with his elbow. “Come now. Enough quarrelling; show me that Singularity of yours again.”

\---

Shepard was running, so fast it felt like flying, as screams echoed around her and the ground quaked underfoot. The voices she blurred past were her comrades, her friends, and they were _dying_ , engulfed by acid and wrenched apart by ravenous jaws, but all she could do was run. A strafe to the right and she narrowly avoided the hole in the earth which consumed her Lieutenant, but the ear-splitting screech of the Thresher Maws was right behind her now; she looked over her shoulder to see a tentacle lashing for her, too close to dodge, too late to brace—

With a cry she jolted awake, clutching at the old injury at her flank which, though long since scarred over, seared as though she’d just been struck afresh; she took a deep breath, trying to settle both her racing heart and the imagined pain. It had been some time since she’d dreamt of Akuze; her nights, for the most part, were filled with her more recent past, with burning cities and lost children and seashells on desolate shores. But with every step she took in the Western Approach it was impossible not to think back to that fateful mission. She was surrounded by the same arid landscape, with the same tentative hope of new companionship, and she could only hope that this time there would be a happier ending.

“Shepard?” Cassandra sleepy voice drifted across from the adjacent bedroll. “Is everything alright?”

“Just an old war wound playing up,” she told her. “Go back to sleep.” The Seeker rolled over on her bedding, and within seconds her soft snores filled the tent once more, but try as Shepard might to focus on her breathing the tent was quickly becoming stifling; quietly, so as not to reawaken Cassandra, she eased out into the night. The cool air hit her face as she stepped into the moonlight, and she was finally able to take a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as she focused on the sensation of the night’s breeze on her skin.

Travel in Thedas was tedious and time-consuming, with journeys which would’ve taken minutes back home costing days, but the one benefit was the proximity to open air. When she’d woken from bad dreams on the Normandy she’d felt cramped in her cabin, suffocated by the artificial air, her skylight barely enough to remind her of the outside world; here, when troubled by the same memories, she could simply step into an endless desert and feel small. 

“Shepard?” She jumped, eyes shooting open at the unexpected call of her name. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She turned to the voice, locating Trevelyan at the burnt-out pit of their fire, his face paler than ever in the moonlight.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

“No.”

“Still thinking about the weight of the world on your shoulders?” He didn’t reply, turning his attention to the final dying crackles of their fire. “Cassandra spoke to you earlier?” she tried again, voice softer, but he only nodded in response. “What did she say?”

“She told me I have the full support of the Inquisition, and that she has every faith that I will succeed.”

“That was nice of her.”

He merely grunted, and silence stretched between them once more as Shepard considered what he wanted - needed - to hear. “She doesn’t get it,” he muttered after a long moment. “She thinks I’m worried about what I saw in Crestwood. That the responsibility of being ‘The Inquisitor’ scares me.”

“So what’s really going on?” He screwed his eyes up, and she wasn’t quite sure if he was attempting to keep his feelings in or trying to release them. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to; I know we don’t know each other very well yet. But it might help.”

He sighed, opening his eyes once more, some of the tension in his face dropping as he considered her words. “I keep thinking about Haven,” he eventually forced out, still not looking at her.

“Your base before Skyhold?” she clarified, and he nodded. “What about it?”

“About all the people we lost when Corypheus attacked,” he admitted. “There was one woman there - Flissa. She owned the tavern. It caught on fire that night - I heard her screaming for help, but when I got inside the smoke and the flames were just so overwhelming, and before I knew it the ceiling had collapsed on her, and…” he trailed off, glaring furiously at the smouldering remains of the fire in front of them. She knew all too well that feeling of failure, and how hollow words of comfort were, but she still felt compelled to say something.

“That’s not your fault. You’ll never be able to save everyone.”

“But I could’ve saved _her_. If I’d been quicker, if I was less…” he trailed off again with a frustrated groan, finally turning to look Shepard in the face, the anguish in his eyes clear even in the darkness. “I hate fire,” he said, very quietly, voice full of scorn for himself, as though he was revealing his darkest sin to Shepard. “I can barely tolerate when Dorian fights with it, and at Haven it was _everywhere_. There were others trapped too, but I made Cassandra get them, but then she was bogged down fighting Red Templars when Flissa called out to us.” The words were coming thick and fast now, and she doubted he wanted to tell her all of this, but it was too late for him to stop the flood of words and anger and fear. “And I _tried_ , I really did try to reach her, but… but I failed her, because I was _scared_. And I can’t let anyone else die because of me - because I’m too slow, or because I hesitate again.”

His words ebbed, as his did his energy, and he looked away from her once more, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. It all made sense now; the way he constantly pushed them and himself to go faster, farther, working himself to the bone for the sake of a few hours’ advantage. It wasn’t about the fire, not really, just as her bad dreams weren’t about Thresher Maws; what he was really scared of was failing them. And if he continued like this, it would kill him.

“I’m not going to tell you you’ll get over this fear,” she said slowly, carefully picking her words, “and I’m not going to tell you more people won’t die. However fast you are, however perfect your combat style or your strategies, people will still die. But it’ll get easier.”

“People dying shouldn’t get easier,” he muttered.

“No, it shouldn’t,” she agreed. “But it will. Until then, you can’t torture yourself over things you can’t change.”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” 

“Show the world you’re indestructible, even when you feel like you’re breaking. Everything’s falling to shit right now, and people need someone to believe in. And who knows; once you’ve convinced the world, you might even start to convince yourself.” 

“You’re telling me to get a grip,” he surmised, the ghost of a smile creeping at his lips.

“I’m being slightly more tactful than that, but yes.”

He managed a small, hoarse chuckle at her words, a glimmer of the man who’d recruited her breaking through for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said with a wry smile. “I didn’t mean to burden you like this.”

“It’s no burden,” she told him. “I do know what it’s like, the whole ‘last hope for humanity’ thing - and how lonely it can be. So if you need an ear, or a shoulder, I’ll be around.”

“Thank you, Shepard,” he said emphatically, smiling at her for a moment longer before it flickered and was replaced by concern. “But, wait - why are you up?”

“Cassandra snores,” was the lie which immediately rolled off her tongue, because she’d long since perfected the art of appearing indestructible. “Go get some sleep.”

He nodded, pushing up from the sand and kicking out the last embers of the fire before heading back to his tent. Shepard didn’t follow; instead she laid down in the sand, tracing patterns in the stars until sleep found her once more.

\---

Trevelyan was in marginally better form the following morning; his complexion was still pallid, but he’d at least trimmed his beard, and cooked them all breakfast himself before they departed. It wasn’t far at all to the ritual tower, and within the hour they’d convened with Stroud and Hawke at the entrance to the old ruin.

“I’m glad you made it, Inquisitor,” said Stroud. “I fear they’ve already started the ritual.” The Inquisitor shot a brief, reproachful look at Shepard, but she ignored him, choosing not to point out that Cassandra too had recommended they wait until the morning.

“Blood magic, I’d wager,” Hawke added, her voice uncharacteristically grim. “I suppose it’d be disappointing if a field trip to an ancient Tevinter tower _didn’t_ involve demons and human sacrifice. You take point; I’ll guard your backs.”

It was clear with every step towards the tower that Hawke’s guess was correct; the air hung heavy with the stench of blood, and Shepard wrinkled her nose in a vain attempt to prevent it from permeating her senses. They could hear voices ahead of them, the words unclear but panic buzzing beneath them palpable, until they were cut off by a sharp cry and the unmistakable screech of a demon.

“Quickly,” the Inquisitor urged, taking the stone steps two at a time now as the rest struggled to keep up.

“Maker preserve us, are they—” Dorian began, cocking his head to one side, “—are they _binding demons_?”

He was right; they levelled off at the top of the tower and were immediately confronted with a group of Grey Wardens, all flanked by unnervingly tame demons, standing over the still-fresh corpses of their comrades. Behind them all, stood on a dias and overlooking macabre scene, was the only man not dressed in Warden armour; instead he wore embellished robes which looked distinctly Tevinter in origin.

“Inquisitor!” the man called out as he clocked them. “What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium at your service,” he said with a flourishing bow, his contempt for the group clear.

“You are no Warden,” Stroud took it upon himself to state the completely obvious, and Erimond turned to him with a smirk.

“But you are - the one Clarel let slip. And you found the Inquisitor, and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?”

Shepard was already preparing her biotics, and Cassandra had drawn her sword, but the Inquisitor waved them to stop, turning now to Wardens to launch an appeal. “Wardens! This man is lying to you! He serves an ancient Tevinter magister who wants to unleash a Blight!” His words were impassioned, desperate, and Shepard could tell in an instant they were useless; the Wardens didn’t even seem to hear him, each one’s focus remaining resolutely on Erimond. 

“That’s a very serious accusation,” Erimond continued, his smirk widening. “Let’s see what the Wardens think. Wardens - hands up,” he commanded, raising his left hand, an action which was immediately copied by the Wardens. “Hands down,” he continued, and they followed him in perfect synchrony.

“That… is not good,” Shepard muttered, becoming increasingly unnerving by the Wardens’ vacant expressions.

“Corypheus has taken their minds,” Stroud concluded, and Erimond actually laughed, the pleasure he seemed to be taking in the proceedings making anger itch under Shepard’s skin. 

“They did this to themselves. You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help.”

“Even Tevinter.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And since it was my master who put the Calling into their little heads, we in the Venatori were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and together we came up with a plan. Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

Erimond droned on, about how his ritual also enslaved the Wardens to Corypheus, revelling in the sound of his own voice, but Shepard was only half-listening; she knew their discussion would have only one outcome, and was rapidly formulating a plan for the inevitable fight. A Rage demon, three shades, two spellbinders and Erimond. The numbers weren’t bad, but there was the distinct possibility of the mages summoning more demons, so they’d have to be taken care of first; she also had a sneaking suspicion that the magister was one to use the cover of battle to flee rather than fight.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered to Cassandra, whose own gaze was flicking back and forth between the Wardens and their demons.

“Pull the spellbinders close, incapacitate the magister, then focus on the demons?”

Shepard grinned. “I do like you, Cassandra.”

“I’m sorry - are we boring you?” Erimond cut across their whispered discussion, glaring at the women who’d had the audacity not to listen to him; Cassandra fell silent immediately, but Shepard couldn’t resist fighting back with a frown and a comment of her own.

“I’m sorry - are we not giving you the attention that you crave?”

“Shepard, can you not—”

“Shepard, is it?” Erimond interrupted the Inquisitor’s plea for her to play nice, picking up on the name and regarding her with great interest. “Your demon told my master you were dead. How intriguing.”

Shepard felt her blood run cold as Erimond leered at her, her nonchalance rapidly evaporating at the implication of his words. _Corypheus had Liara_ , and she could only be angry at herself for that; she should have gone with her, or better yet persuaded her out of her pursuit of his research entirely, but she hadn’t and now her friend was captured, _in danger_ …

“Where is she?” she hissed as she took a single step forward, barely even realising she was moving until she felt Cassandra grab at her backplate. “What have you done with her?”

“Ah, _now_ you’re willing to give me your undivided attention.”

“If you’ve done _anything_ to hurt Liara—”

“She will not be harmed - not until she’s served her purpose,” Erimond told her, and she _knew_ he was goading her but it was impossible to hold back the spark of biotics at her fingertips. “My master has grand plans for her; this demon army will pale in comparison.”

“You son of a—”

“Don’t—!” the Inquisitor yelled, too late; she saw red, her biotics surging through her nerves and unleashing themselves almost of their own volition. The resulting shockwave pulsed across the tower and hit Erimond square in the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him skittering across the stone floor with a pained cry.

“Kill them!” Erimond screeched as he scrabbled back to his feet; the Wardens and demons both turned, staves and talons raised, as the rest of their party drew their own weapons.

“Shepard, the spellbinders!” Cassandra called, and though all she wanted to do was knock Erimond to the ground again she knew she had to keep to the plan; she Pulled in both mages, dispatching one with her daggers and allowing Cassandra to take care of the other as her biotics cooled down. Within a few short moments the energy inside her hummed once more, ready for another attack, and she lowered her head to Charge at the fleeing Erimond - but as she did she noticed the Rage demon bearing down on the Inquisitor; his shield was held high but his sword hand shook, and he still flinched as the creature swung out with fists of fire. With a groan of frustration she altered her path, shooting across the battlefield to slam into the demon; she lashed out with her daggers at the moment of impact, and its flames licked at her face for a fraction of second before it disintegrated into ash.

“Thanks,” Trevelyan muttered, not meeting her eyes and instead turning to fight the shade a few paces across from him, and Shepard whipped around to locate Erimond once more but he’d vanished from sight. As for the rest of the battle, it was all but over; Cassandra was finishing off the final two shades, with assistance from Dorian’s bolts and Hawke’s arrows, and Stroud had already disengaged, inspecting the bodies of the dead Wardens with a grim expression.

The creatures fell, and the group sheathed their weapons, each of them looking to the Inquisitor for further instruction. He however only looked toward Shepard, his face contorted into a deep scowl.

“Damnit, Shepard; what were you thinking?”

She was glad that the way she flushed in response was concealed by her sunburn; it was embarrassing, losing control like that, but she refused to admit as much to the group. “That conversation was going nowhere,” she instead dismissed, folding her arms across her chest.

“I had more questions to ask him, and now he’s gone Maker-knows where!”

“And what was all that about ‘your demon’?” Hawke chipped in. “Don’t get me wrong, at least it evens the playing field; they’ve got their own personal demons, you’ve got your own personal demon…”

“She’s not a demon,” Shepard said forcefully. “She’s just… a bit unusual. Anders knows her.”

“What a ringing endorsement.”

“He’s _your_ friend,” she pointed out, which seemed to be entirely the wrong thing to say; Hawke glared at her, none of her singular humour present in her features.

“Not anymore.”

“None of this matters,” Trevelyan interrupted. “All that matters is that Corypheus is raising a demon army and binding Grey Wardens to him and _we have no idea where_.”

“If I may, Your Worship,” Stroud volunteered, “I believe I know where the Wardens are. Erimond fled in that direction,” he said, indicating across the desert. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress that way - Adamant.”

“Then we follow him.”

“No,” Stroud shook his head. “Adamant dates back to the second Blight; it has withstood dozens of assaults. Breaching its walls will be no simple task.”

“We claimed Caer Bronach,” Trevelyan persisted. “We claimed Griffon Wing Keep. We can take Adamant.”

“Inquisitor - think about what you are suggesting,” Cassandra, ever the voice of reason, spoke now. “All Wardens in Orlais will be at this fort; that alone is a force too big for we here to handle. But add in their demons…”

“If we don’t act immediately more Wardens will be bound. More demons will be summoned, and more people will die.”

“And if we go now, we will all die. Six of us cannot defeat an entire army.”

Trevelyan groaned, his hand automatically reaching up to worry through his hair. “Fine. Then I’ll write to Cullen and tell him to meet us with his army in the Approach.”

“No.” It was Shepard’s turn to protest, and though he still looked annoyed with her she couldn’t stay silent on this. “He’ll need time to prepare; study infrastructure, organise his troops, find a weakness in their defences. We should regroup at Skyhold first - if we don’t have a sound strategy we’ll just be throwing men at the walls.”

“If we go back, we lose _weeks_ ,” he argued. “What happened to all that bravado of yours? To wanting to beat the shit out of Corypheus?”

“Marcus,” Shepard said, stepping forward to put a hand on his arm. Was it blasphemy to refer to the Herald of Andraste by his first name? “Corypheus has my best friend. I’d pummel down the walls of Adamant with my bare fists to find out where she is if I could, but I can’t. We only have one shot at this, so we have to do it right.”

He almost looked swayed, though that anguished look she’d seen last night was back, and she knew he was thinking of the bodies they’d find when they eventually breached the walls. “She’s right, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, voice soft, and with a long, defeated exhale he nodded.

“Alright. We’ll send word ahead to give Cullen more time to prepare his men, but we should still hurry.”

“Agreed,” Hawke said. “Stroud and I will scout out Adamant, and confirm that the other Wardens are there. We’ll meet you back at Skyhold.”

The group separated, and Trevelyan quickly paved the way back to their campsite; they paused there, very briefly, for him to scribble a quick update to Cullen, before they mounted their horses once more. “We aren’t going to stop to camp tonight, are we?” Dorian muttered to Shepard as he gave her a leg-up.

“He’s right, Dorian. The longer we leave it the worse the ratio of Wardens to demons will become.” And the worse her chances of finding Liara unscathed; she shuddered as she thought of whatever Corypheus’ ‘plans’ for her friend might be, desperately hoping that he was too focused on the Wardens for the time being. “If he wants to ride non-stop for the next week, I’m happy to oblige.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! I reached 5000 hits just as I was doing my final proofread of this chapter, so now seems like the perfect time to thank you all again for continuing this story with me! It's so lovely to hear that other people like my writing, and I hope you continue to enjoy it, because THEY'RE SO CLOSE TO PROPERLY CARING, I PROMISE.
> 
> Also, if you don't follow [my Tumblr](http://agentkatie.tumblr.com/) I wrote [a thing](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/165147107665/hesitation) for Cullen Appreciation week in case you wanted to read. It's only slightly spoilery; post-Adamant so you'll find out who gets left in the Fade, and Cullen's feelings have moved on just a bit.


	26. Chapter 26

The Inquisitor’s missive regarding the Wardens was troubling to say the least, and Cullen knew that any attack on Adamant would be hard-fought. Sister Leliana was quick in securing old maps and construction records of the fortress, which Cullen studied late into most nights, and it was reassuring to discover it was by no means impenetrable; the ancient walls, though sturdy enough to withstand darkspawn for centuries, were not built to protect against the threat of trebuchets and sappers. But the walls were high, and would no doubt be lined with ranged fighters, meaning those managing the siege equipment would be at risk from projectiles from above; furthermore, if the Wardens had already summoned their demon army, the fight within the walls had the potential to turn into a bloodbath. 

There were certain things he could do to minimise the losses; he doubled his time spent training and running drills with his recruits, with new focus on demons and shades, enlisting several of the Inquisition’s Templars to assist him in his teaching. He also, after a lengthy discussion with Josephine about the size of the Inquisition’s coffers, secured funding to upgrade the equipment of as many soldiers as they could afford. It wasn’t enough, he knew that, but it was the best he could do in the limited time available to him.

His time was further stretched by the fact the Inquisitor had claimed another Keep whilst in the Western Approach; he had sent Knight-Capain Rylen to manage the new holding, and the loss of his deputy combined with planning their siege tripled his workload. He could manage - just - but he was still grateful when the Inquisitor arrived back ahead of schedule, knowing Shepard’s assistance with his work would grant him some much-needed breathing room.

He gave her an hour back in Skyhold before loading up his arms with paperwork and heading towards her quarters, figuring that was more than enough time for her to scrub the desert out of her hair, and as he approached her door he could hear two indistinct voices mumbling on the other side. As he grew closer he recognised the voices as Shepard and Cole, and could make out snippets of their conversation.

“—don’t understand how you can see all that, but not see where she is.”

“What she feels isn’t the place.” He heard Shepard groan at Cole’s response, and then groan again as Cullen’s knocked at the door; within a few short seconds she’d thrown the door to her room open, wearing a serious expression he was quite unaccustomed to seeing on her. Indeed, she looked so different from when she’d left Skyhold that it took Cullen a moment or two to register her appearance; her usually pale skin was now in a transition between burnt and tanned, peeling cheeks generously spattered with freckles and auburn hair streaked with copper and gold.

“Rutherford. What’s up?”

“Shepard. You’ve caught the sun.”

She frowned at him, as though what he’d said was the most insulting comment one could make on someone’s appearance, and she turned back to look at Cole. “Is he fucking with me right now?”

“I don’t think so,” Cole said, cocking its head to one side. “The Iron Bull tried to explain what _that_ is, and I don’t think that’s happening now.”

“Huh?”

“It’s being too literal; let’s - ah - let’s just move on,” Cullen said as he awkwardly cleared his throat, hoping she’d accept the change of subject before his cheeks turned a shade to rival hers. “I hope you enjoyed your time in the Approach. I have some work that you could assist with, but I understand if you’d like to rest—”

“Ooh, is this about Adamant?” she interrupted, eagerly picking the top sheet from the pile and scanning it. “No, it isn’t,” she concluded, brow creasing as she placed the paper back. “Resource gathering in the Approach; how dull. Where’s the good stuff?”

“If by ‘good stuff’ you mean preparations for the siege, I have it under control.”

“‘I have it under control’ will be your dying words. Anyway, if that’s all you want help with I’m busy at the moment,” she said, indicating to Cole, who was merely watching them quietly; Cullen’s brow furrowed, a little perturbed by how quickly she was dismissing him. 

“Is everything alright?”

It was Cole who took it upon himself to answer that, stepping forward to stand next to Shepard in the doorway. “Little wings seeking to soar home, but now they’re trapped, clipped in the cage she made. She’s safe, but sad.”

“But _where_?”

“I can’t tell,” Cole answered as she began to rub her temples. “It’s too red.”

“This is about your friend - Liara,” Cullen surmised, his mind flicking back to the field reports he’d received from Trevelyan and Cassandra; Shepard’s and Dorian’s missives had been notably silent on the subject of Shepard’s friend. She nodded. “Should I be worried about this magister referring to her as a demon?”

“Of _course_ that’s your primary concern,” she said, voice growing loud with indignation. “Not ‘Shepard might be upset that her only friend has been caught by Corypheus’.”

“I’m merely asking you for reassurance,” he bristled, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not accusing you of being a blood mage.”

“And that’s enough, is it? You’ll just believe me if I tell you she’s not a demon?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, without even needing to think about it; Shepard blinked, lost for words for a fraction of a moment, her mouth silently opening and closing once before finding what she wanted to say.

“Well… she’s not.”

“Well… good.” There was a distinctly awkward silence after that, made worse by the way Cole continued to stare at them, and Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck as he cast around for something else to say. “ _Are_ you upset?” he asked, in a tone he was sure she’d accuse of being unfeeling, but instead she sighed, the tension within her ebbing as she slouched against the doorframe.

“We argued last time we were together,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes. “I was being selfish, and it drove her away. Now Corypheus has her because of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen offered, knowing that it was a meaningless platitude but not knowing what else could help. “At least Cole says she’s safe.”

“For now,” she said, continuing to scowl at the ground. “Apparently Corypheus has ‘grand plans’ for her.”

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you didn’t agree with the Inquisitor and head straight to Adamant to find her.”

Shepard shook her head. “We need a solid plan to get through those walls, and there’s no reason to think she’ll be at Adamant anyway; she’s got nothing to do with the Wardens. Besides,” she said, a flicker of a smile on her lips for the first time during their talk, “it occurs to me that I’ve been tricked like that before.”

“Indeed,” Cullen agreed, and though she said it lightly he felt a twinge of guilt at the memory. “Alright. Would you like to see our plan of attack for Adamant?”

Her eyes lit up at that, smile broadening into a grin. “Ah, Rutherford, you do know the way to a girl’s heart.”

“The best way to the heart is under the fifth rib,” Cole said, the unnerving remark spoken as though he was merely commenting on the weather. “Through and up.”

Shepard coughed to cover a giggle, and Cullen wasn’t sure whether she was laughing at Cole’s words or Cullen’s expression on hearing them. “I’ll catch you later, Cole. If you think of anything else about Liara let me know.”

Cole nodded, leaving them as Shepard took Cullen’s pile of paperwork and unceremoniously dumped it on her bed, and it took a great amount of restraint for him not to straighten it and to instead lead the way back to his office. “I know it wants to help,” Cullen muttered as they passed through the rotunda and into the mild afternoon air, his mind still preoccupied with Cole’s parting words of wisdom, “but that thing is very unsettling.”

“Don’t call him a thing!” Shepard chastised.

“It’s not a ‘him’.”

“I like him,” she shrugged, ignoring Cullen’s correction. “He might be one of the oddest people I’ve ever met.”

It was not surprising in the slightest that she was fond of the spirit; between it, Sera and the reportedly demonesque Liara there probably wasn’t a single normal person she considered a friend. “You have questionable preferences when it comes to the company you keep.”

“I know; what about that Templar who stabbed me? He’s dreadful,” she said, winking at him as she pushed open the door to his office.

“ _Former_ Templar. Here we go,” Cullen said, unrolling the large schematic of Adamant fortress and smoothing it over his desk; Shepard quickly moved in, hands resting on the desk as her eyes darted across the document’s features.

“Looks pretty sturdy,” she muttered. “Walls are a good six inches thick. What are they made of, granite?”

“Thankfully not; it’s obsidian, and the main gate is oak.” 

“Still tough to get through,” Shepard noted. 

“They’ve stood up well enough against darkspawn through the ages, but modern siege equipment will be another matter.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Battering rams?”

“And trebuchets.”

“I like it,” she grinned. “Bludgeon the walls until they stop being walls. Not what I would have done, but it’ll work pretty well.”

“Do enlighten me, Commander,” he smirked. “What would _you_ have done?”

“Aerial bombardment, obviously. Drop missiles on them, then drop men on the walls. Takes out the whole walk of death towards the main gate.”

“And how do you propose we get _above_ the hundred-foot walls?”

She looked stumped for a moment, mouth scrunched to one side and brow knitted in concentration. “Giant eagles?” she eventually suggested, nose wrinkling in a way that indicated she knew very well how ridiculous she sounded.

“ _What_?”

“I know griffons are extinct, and I feel dragons are going to be difficult to tame, but giant eagles always seem pretty helpful in books and stuff.”

“There is no such thing as ‘giant eagles’. What sort of books have you been reading?!”

“Oh, because _that’s_ the limit!” she exclaimed. “Elves and dragons and actual fucking witchcraft are real here, but giant eagles are a stretch too far!” He didn’t know quite how to respond to that, unsure whether or not she was joking about _giant eagles_ , and she let out an indignant huff before making her next suggestion. “Fine. How about you use the trebuchets to launch people—”

“You are _mad_ ; do you know that?”

“I wish you’d just hurry up and learn about aerodynamics,” she muttered, eyes back on the schematics once more. “In all seriousness, though: this death walk is going to be a problem,” she told him, trailing a finger from the main gate to the direction his men would approach from. “Your soldiers are going to be sitting ducks for whatever’s on the walls. Archers, rocks, fireball-throwing demons…”

“It is… a dangerous task,” Cullen admitted reluctantly. “But I see no alternative.”

“A frontal assault _is_ the only option, but there must be some means of damage limitation.” He wasn’t even sure she was talking to him anymore; she was no longer looking at him, instead staring off pensively through the window behind him. “I have a suggestion,” she eventually said. “Testudo formation, in groups of thirty to forty.”

“Excuse me?”

“Testudo formation,” she repeated, elaborating further at his blank expression. “It’s like… tortoise formation. The men put their shields up in a box, protect themselves from all angles.” 

“Ah. Foulkon formation.” It was an archaic technique but one which had been effective in its time, apparently having turned the tide during the third Blight; it had fallen out of favour since the rise of cavalry in battle - but the Wardens wouldn’t have horses.

“It’ll slow your men down but minimise your losses as you approach the gate,” she continued as he ran through the logistics of the manoeuvre in his mind. “Plus, they can protect the base of your trebuchets.”

“It is not something my men are trained for,” he admitted, “but I can see how it might be useful. I’ll introduce it in my training this evening and see how they go.” He paused, a little taken aback by the remarkable suggestion; her ability to organise supply lines and small footholds was one thing, but this demonstrated a level of knowledge far deeper than that of many senior Templars he’d known. “You must have had significant teaching in military history to know of that manoeuvre.”

“Just a childhood spent playing Gladiators with my brothers,” she shrugged as a small, wistful smile crossed her face. “Now what’s your plan for within the walls?”

“There are chokepoints - here and here,” he said, indicating to the areas on the schematic. “If we target these areas we can cut off reinforcements and give the Inquisitor a clear path to Clarel.”

“That sounds like you’re fighting to hold back the tide rather than to win.”

He grimaced, subconsciously flexing his hand over the pommel of his sword at the thought of the upcoming battle. “Because I am not sure this is a fight we can win outright. We have plenty of our own mages, but not enough Templars to face down a demon army. I have been preparing my recruits as best I can, but it’s no substitute for formal Templar training.” Even if he did have more Templars at his disposal, he still knew the destruction mages and demons could wreak - had seen as much himself more than once. “Will you be in the Inquisitor’s party for the assault?” he asked, mainly to distract himself from the images which were clawing at the corners of his mind.

“I think so,” she said. “He hasn’t announced his full line-up yet, but I got that impression.”

“A pity. I could have used you to lead the attack on the wall, but ensuring the Inquisitor’s safety is more important.”

“I’ll do what I can from the ground,” she reassured him. “What about you?”

“I shall be leading the main charge, of course.”

“Shouldn’t you be at the back?” she frowned. “You’re the one coordinating the assault; surely you need a vantage point to give new instructions if you need to. Plus you’ll be too much of a target at the front.”

“I have to lead my men into battle, Shepard.” She didn’t look convinced, brow still wrinkled as she fiddled with the corner of the parchment in front of her, and the most peculiar thought dawned on him. “Are you _worried_ about me?”

“ _No_ ,” she said emphatically, and he arched an eyebrow at her. “Well, yes, but only because you’re a terrible fighter.”

“That is _not_ —”

His protest was interrupted by the door to his office opening once more; it was the Inquisitor, wearing a healthier tan than Shepard but looking just as tired as when he’d left Skyhold. “Cullen, I want— ah, Shepard,” the Inquisitor said, coming forward to stand at his desk. “It seems you’ve beat me to it. Is this the plan for Adamant? How does it look?”

“Good; it’s a solid plan, especially considering how little time there’s been to cobble it together,” Shepard told him, and Cullen couldn’t help but smile at her endorsement. “Rutherford might get smushed by a boulder, but I’ll be happy to take over his job in that instance. He’ll fill you in.” She turned back to Cullen. “I’ll start work on the the thrilling supply chains you’ve saved for me.”

Cullen nodded as she left the room and Trevelyan turned his attention to the plans on Cullen’s desk. “Are you well, Inquisitor?” he ventured, observing him once more; he at least looked no worse than when he’d seen him last, which was surprising considering Dorian’s report of them travelling at least one night without sleep on their return journey.

“Of course. Are your men ready to march?”

“They can be ready by the morning. Shepard made a suggestion for the attack, and I would like to run it here before we leave.” Waiting a day also meant that the Inquisitor and his companions would at least get one night of sleep in a decent bed before returning to the road, but if the Trevelyan suspected his ulterior motive he didn’t let on.

“Very well. Let’s meet in the War Room in ten minutes to go through everything with Leliana and Lady Josephine.”

Cullen nodded once more, already rolling up his documents as the Inquisitor exited his office to round up the women for their meeting. After the meeting he would prepare his soldiers for their move in the morning - and he hoped that, with Shepard’s advice, more of them would live to see the march home.

\---

The road to Adamant was long, and relentless, and though Cullen stubbornly fought against it the sheer volume of work soon threatened to smother him. When he wasn’t marching he was running drills, and when he wasn’t doing that he was dealing with the constant stream of messengers and soldiers that graced his tent into the early hours of the morning, and all the while the thirst for lyrium gnawed in his gut and itched through his veins. There was, he knew, only so long he could continue like this, but until he saw the upcoming battle through he refused to break. He had to keep planning and strategising as though nothing was wrong, had to keep his soldiers’ faith that they would win their siege at Adamant; it didn’t matter that his head pounded and his hands shook and his vision blurred a little more with every passing day, so long as his men continued to believe in him until the battle. After the battle… well, he’d have to speak with Cassandra, and hope that she would keep her promise. 

His thoughts were distracted by a flutter of papers placed on his makeshift desk directly over the report he’d been trying to read; he scowled up at the infuriatingly chipper Shepard, who still managed to keep smiling after a full day on a forced march, and a resentful voice at the back of his mind wondered if she would command the Inquisition better than him.

“You look terrible.”

His scowl deepened, though he didn’t rise to her bait, instead reaching for the documents she’d given him. “What did you do about those darkspawn on the Storm Coast?”

“I sorted it,” she said firmly, placing her palm on top of the papers to stop his rifling. “When was the last time you had a break?”

“That depends on what day it is,” he muttered darkly. “If there’s nothing else—”

“Dinner will be ready in a bit; why don’t you come out of your tent and grab a spot by the fire?”

“I’ll have food sent to me.”

“ _Cullen_.” The way she spoke his name was so scolding that he could have mistaken her for one of the Chantry mothers who had taught him the Chant as a boy, and he resisted the urge to rub at the back of his neck. “We’ve already got Trevelyan trying to kill himself with work - we don’t need you at it too.”

“Then go bother Trevelyan into socialising.”

“Dorian’s already doing that for me. Come on - what do you do for fun?” she persisted. “I mean, barring hunting down rogue apostates?”

“Tracking apostate mages was not fun for me, Shepard,” he grumbled. “It was my duty.”

“Admit it, Rutherford - we had fun.”

He was about to argue with her, but couldn’t quite summon up the energy to do so, especially considering she was right - though he wasn’t about to admit that. “I enjoy chess,” he told her instead.

“Then let’s play chess. Have you got a board?”

“Yes, but— I _really_ do have to finish these,” he protested half-heartedly, but she’d grabbed half of his paperwork before he’d even finished his sentence, folding them roughly and shoving them into her jacket pocket.

“There; now you have time. Get your board.” He hesitated for a moment longer before obeying her, because despite his overwhelming workload a break and a game of chess was incredibly tempting, and with a sigh he began to rummage through his pack for his travel set. “Not in here,” she said as he moved to place the board on his desk. “You need some fresh air.”

“We’ve been on a forced march for most of the day; I’ve had plenty of fresh air.”

“A bit more won’t kill you.” She turned from him before he could argue, sweeping from his tent and leaving him with no choice but to follow; he did so, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the harsh glare of the setting sun as he stepped outside. He followed her through the camp, nodding to his soldiers as he passed them, grateful that Shepard seemed to be steering them away from the main throng of people; he was already struggling to ignore the dull ache between his eyes, and the noise towards the centre of camp only served to worsen it and make him wince. After several minutes she came to a spot she seemed happy with, on the periphery of the camp where the ground began to slope down towards Lake Celestine; she sat down cross-legged on the grass, indicating for him to sit opposite her. It was significantly more uncomfortable than his tent, the ground uneven and sure to leave grass-stains on his breeches, and he struggled briefly to find a relatively flat patch of ground on which to place his board.

“That’s not a fucking chessboard!” Shepard exclaimed as he began to set up their pieces. “Why do the squares have six sides?”

“Because they’re _hexagons_. Do you only play on a square board? Are you a child?”

“A square board is a standard chess board. I’ve never even seen a monstrosity like this before.”

Her bewildered expression as she regarded Cullen’s regulation chessboard was incredibly amusing, and Cullen found himself smiling for the first time in days - though perhaps smirking was a more accurate word. “I can procure a square board if you do not think you can handle a proper game - or we could just play tic-tac-toe in the grass with twigs, if that’s more your speed.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, predictably rising to his taunt with a threat of her own. “Set it up, Rutherford, and prepare to be crushed.”

He quickly arranged the final pieces, offering her a brief explanation of how they moved differently on a hexagonal board, though she clearly wasn’t listening as closely as she ought to be. They played the first few turns in silence, and it was perhaps the longest Shepard had ever gone without talking; tongue between her teeth and brow puckered into a little frown, her look of extreme concentration was so endearing that it took Cullen a minute longer than it should have to realise that she was absolutely hopeless at chess. 

Even when making allowances for her lack of experience on a normal board, she was so bad at the game that he could barely believe her to be the same woman who had offered such sound tactical advice over the past month. She spent far too long planning each move, to the point he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from telling her to hurry up, and her overwhelming reluctance to sacrifice any of her pieces resulted in moves that lacked any sort of purpose. Despite how painful the match was, and how quickly it could be over if he set his mind to it, he truly had intentions of going easy on her for her first proper game; he allowed her the first move, and to take the first piece, letting her gloat over his captured pawn as though she’d just successfully conquered Fort Drakon. He even pretended not to notice when another pawn mysteriously vanished from the board. But then his knight went missing, and he made the conscious decision to annihilate her. 

“You may concede defeat if you wish,” he said, revelling in the surprised noise she made as he captured her knight in revenge. “To save your men from their inevitable massacre.”

“I’ll wipe that smirk off your face before this match is over,” she muttered, and he couldn’t tell if it was bravado or if she really did think she was doing well.

“And how long will that be, exactly? With the time it takes you to move a pawn forward, I doubt we will be done before next Tuesday.”

“A-ha!” she exclaimed, grinning triumphantly as she captured one of his pawns and fell directly into the trap he’d laid for her; he quickly moved in to take her rook with his own, and her expression immediately turned to one of horror as she realised her mistake. “No!” 

He couldn’t help but laugh at her pained cry, his mounting workload and the unrelenting thudding in his skull momentarily forgotten in the wake of his victory over her, and though he expected to elicit another frown when she looked at him next it was with a soft smile of her lips. “What?” he asked, confused by her expression.

“Nothing. It’s just nice to hear you laugh.”

He should have foreseen her turning to flirtation to distract him from the board when outright cheating didn’t work, but he still flushed at her words, redirecting his attention back to the game and determinedly ignoring that smile of hers. “You cannot fluster me into losing,” he growled, indicating with one hand for her to make her move.

“That wasn’t what I was trying to do, but apparently it works quite well.”

They settled into silence once more as Shepard continued her woeful attempt at a chess game, with Cullen occasionally letting one of her pieces go uncaptured out of sheer pity. She was quickly growing frustrated with their match, thrusting her pieces forward in reckless attacks on his carefully cultivated line of defence, and it was clear she was attempting to replicate real-world strategies within the game; if it were a real battlefield her tactics might have even worked, but on a chessboard flooding the front line with pawns only made it easier for him to pick off her pieces.

“What do you call this piece?” she asked after a while, tilting her remaining mage on its axis. “We call them bishops, but you don’t have bishops in the Chantry.”

“It’s a mage.”

“Mages are stronger than knights. Interesting.” She slid the piece across the board and into his knight, making a crashing sound as the piece toppled over, either oblivious to or wilfully ignoring the fact that mages couldn’t move horizontally.

“No they aren’t, and they don’t move like that,” he told her, righting his knight and indicating for her to make the move again; she moved incorrectly once more, into one of his pawns now, but as it left him with the advantage he let her make it.

“They are, otherwise they wouldn’t be guarding the king and queen. It goes castle, knight, bishop, then queen; weakest on the outside, strongest on the inside.”

“Their starting positions have nothing to do with it. Knights and mages are of equal value, then rook, then queen.” To prove the point he pushed his rook across to knock down her mage, sinking entirely to her level by mimicking her crashing noise as he did so.

“Actually, I think my last move was in the wrong direction too,” she ventured hopefully, reaching across to straighten her mage, but he beat her to it, knocking her hand out of the way to claim the piece and add it to his ever-growing pile of conquered soldiers.

“Too late.”

She let out a long, disappointed sigh, staring sadly at the board in a way which he refused to let manipulate him. “As we’re talking about knights and mages - I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” He looked to her again, eyes narrowed in anticipation of what was sure to be a distraction to steal a further piece from him. “It’s about Kirkwall - after the explosion.”

“Oh. Well - go ahead.”

“The mages in the Circle - what happened to them? Varric’s story stopped pretty abruptly after the whole Meredith statue thing.”

“Some stayed in the city to help rebuild; many fled to Ostwick, and to the marshlands around the Minanter River. Many died.”

“What happened to the kids? To Agata?”

Cullen jolted at the unexpected question, knocking over the piece he’d been contemplating moving; it skittered across the board and fell onto the grass. “Here,” she said, placing it back in his hand with a smile, and he almost didn’t notice the newly-absent pawn from the board. 

There was a good reason why Varric had not described the fate of the young mages of the Gallows; the truth would not have been a palatable end to his book. His audience did not want to read of the fire that had ripped through the eastern wing of the Gallows; they did not need to know how the children who’d called it home were too afraid of Meredith to try and escape. After, Cullen had seen to their small bodies personally, had ensured they all received a proper Andrastian service. Had left a small clutch of daisies next to Agata on her pyre. It had been the very least he’d owed the girl he had killed.

“One of the Senior Enchanters took a large group of them to the Ostwick Circle,” he told Shepard, not looking up from the board, fearing that if he did so she’d read the lie in his face. “I believe Agata was among them.”

“But then Ostwick’s Circle fell,” Shepard muttered. “And she’s not at Skyhold.”

“Ostwick was always a more lenient Circle than Kirkwall. Some mages may have remained in the region with the children.” He wasn’t sure whether he was lying to make her or himself feel better, but either way she didn’t reply; he chanced a look up at her to see that she too was staring at the chess pieces with a distinctly melancholy expression. “I’ve been meaning to say thank you,” he blurted out, if only to distract her from worrying about the long-dead; she looked up at him, brow puckered in confusion. “For assisting me with my reports. I do appreciate it.”

“Oh, that’s— you don’t have to thank me,” she shrugged, dropping her eyes back to the board. “I’m just doing my job.”

She wasn’t doing her job; her role in the Inquisition had nothing to do with his work, but still she’d volunteered her time to him, offering up no other reason than boredom. “Still, you’ve been helpful. But you don’t really need to do that work you took off my desk - I already give you more than I should.”

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” she shrugged again. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can. I never realised in Kirkwall just how capable a tactician you are.”

She looked up at him once more, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “That was the point.”

“I suspected as much,” he told her, mirroring her expression now as he picked up his knight and commenced his final assault. “But you really are _terrible_ at chess. Check.”

“Piss it.”

He chuckled at the new vernacular she seemed to have picked up from Sera, ignoring the wave of her hand to shush him as she returned her full attention to the board, eyes darting between each of her remaining pieces as she scrabbled to come up with any sort of plan. If she played well, it would take five moves before she was completely cornered - but judging by her efforts thus far, he suspected he’d have her in three.

“This looks cosy.”

He jumped at the unexpected voice, looking up to find Hawke watching over them with a predatory grin stretched across her face. Just like Varric, it had amused her to no end to discover his collaboration with Shepard, and the pair of them were so grating that it almost made him stop accepting her assistance.

“Hello, Hawke,” Shepard nodded to her, still frowning at her pieces as though they would come alive and make their move of their own volition. “All set for the battle?”

“Yes; the Knight-Captain’s—”

“— _Commander_.”

“Knight- _Commander’s_ \- my apologies - briefing was _very_ thorough. I’ve managed to read it through one whole time without falling asleep.”

She directed her frown away from the board up to Hawke. “But you do know what you’re doing, right?”

“Of course. Kirkwall was crawling with blood mages - killing them is second nature to me.”

“Is this what I’m like when I’m flippant?” she directed her question at Cullen, who nodded. “Huh. It’s really annoying.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “I assume the Inquisitor is still set on his choice of party?”

“Yes; I heard you aren’t happy about it, Knight—”

“It’s _just_ Commander,” he corrected, cutting off Hawke’s infuriating - _deliberate_ \- misuse of his former title. “And no, I am not. He’s picked too many mages and not enough warriors.”

“What are you talking about? There’ll be two warriors.”

“You aren’t a warrior, Shepard. You’re a mage who thinks she’s a rogue.”

She glared at him, though he didn’t know what was so objectionable about his completely accurate statement. “ _Check_ ,” she said, roughly pushing her knight across the board to take his mage in yet another wholly illegal move.

“That is absolutely _not_ check; move it back.” She didn’t, folding her arms across her chest and continuing to stare him down, so he moved it back himself, replacing his captured mage in the process. “You need to get yourself out of check first.”

“You don’t need to tell me what to do; I know how to play,” she grumbled, pushing her rook across to shield her king.

“I beg to differ,” he said, unable to resist smirking as he immediately captured her last remaining rook. “Check, again.”

“Now you’re just being vindictive.”

“You can still surrender and preserve what’s left of your dignity; it’s what a true Commander would do.”

“Vindictive _and_ unbearably smug. These are very unattractive qualities in you.”

“Maker’s breath; you two are like an old married couple,” Hawke commented, flopping down on her stomach between them, only an inch from upending their game. “It’s absolutely adorable.”

He glared at her, irritation mingling with embarrassment as he felt his cheeks burn once more. It was bad enough that Shepard insisted on constantly teasing him; he hardly needed Hawke to double down on it. “If we were married,” Shepard mused, stalling her inevitable defeat by sending another pawn to the slaughter, “I would hope he’d be chivalrous and let me win.”

“I might have let you win if you weren’t such a cheat. Check.”

“I am not!”

“You have two pawns and a knight shoved up your left sleeve.” He glanced back at the board, suddenly realising that something else was amiss. “ _And_ my queen! Damnit, Shepard, give it back!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she insisted.

“Fine.” He didn’t need his queen anyway; his rook and mage were already in prime position, and now all he needed was his knight to make the killing blow. “Checkmate.”

She must have known it was coming, but she still looked completely crestfallen by her defeat, unable to comprehend how she’d lost despite her flagrant cheating. “Better luck next time, Shepard,” Hawke commiserated, patting her knee sympathetically. “Maybe get some practice in before you try and take him again, with someone more your level. Like my Mabari.” He’d never seen Shepard look more affronted than by that comment, and he snorted with laughter at her expression. “Winner stays on, Knight-Commander? And let’s make it interesting - if I win, I get your coat.”

“Very well - and _when_ I win, you can start addressing me by my correct title.”

“Beat him for me, Hawke,” Shepard grumbled, standing to leave; he cleared his throat to get her attention, stretching out his upturned hand and arching an eyebrow at her. “Oh, fine. Good game,” she said, gripping his hand and shaking it brusquely.

“No, not that - I want my pieces back,” he said, struggling out of her tight grip but keeping his hand outstretched. She rolled her eyes, but shook her sleeve out nonetheless, the pilfered pieces falling into his palm. “Much obliged, Commander.”

She shot him a final, filthy look before returning to the camp, her stride noticeably deflated, and she’d probably never play him again but he sincerely hoped she would; beating her had been the most fun he’d had in weeks. 

“ _Tsk-tsk_.” 

The scolding noise from Hawke brought his attention back to her; she’d set up the board and was grinning at him again, in a way which made his headache flare once more. “Flirting with an apostate over chess? Whatever would our dearly departed Meredith say?” She made the first move, an aggressive start with her king’s knight, and he responded in kind, trading quick moves with a rogue much more familiar with the game than his first opponent.

“I was doing nothing of the sort,” he said forcefully. “And considering how Meredith departed, she’d probably be more annoyed to see me playing chess with _you_.”

“I don’t know; I heard the rumours about you and your little mage friend back in Kirkwall…”

“She’s not my friend.” He said it reflexively, as he’d done several times before, but this time as the words left his mouth he immediately regretted them. It was incredibly unkind of him to be so dismissive, especially when she was always so - well, _nice_ , to him. Perhaps it was pity; perhaps she saw him, alone in his tower and surrounded by his work, and felt sorry for a man she had every right to despise - but regardless of her motive she helped him, and spent time with him, and seemed to enjoy doing so. If that wasn’t friendship, what was? “And I do not care about whatever idiotic gossip circulated the Gallows,” he added, voice a little softer now.

“Fine,” Hawke huffed, idly twirling her king as she waited for Cullen to make his move. “But it made you much more interesting.”

He reached for one of his pawns, then paused, more surprised than he should have been to find one of his rooks missing. He looked back up at Hawke and narrowed his eyes at her, but she merely responded with a sickly-sweet smile. It would be nice, he mused, to find an opponent who would play him properly. Until then, he’d have to content himself with making an example out of cheaters.


	27. Chapter 27

The air was thick with fire and arrows as they closed on Adamant fortress, and Cullen was at the fore, his soldiers behind and the Inquisitor beside him as they raced towards the main gate. Their approach was strong, but not indestructible; broken cries cracked the night as impossibly accurate arrows pierced their line of shields, and the ladders which were raised to the walls saw his own men crashing to the ground all too frequently as the Wardens hammered back against them. 

The Wardens, and their demons. 

He couldn’t quite visualise the creatures from the ground, but he could sense them; he could hear their cacophonous screeches echoing off the balustrades, could feel the malignant hum of forbidden magic clawing under his skin and resonating with the final remnants of lyrium in his veins. After Kirkwall, after fire and abominations gutted the city and turned its once-vibrant streets to smoldering ruins, he’d prayed he’d never have to face a horde of demons again, but the Maker had never turned His gaze on Cullen in pity; he should have known, back then, that he’d never escape the horrors that had chased him through his life. 

With three pounds of the battering ram the gate buckled, and the forward vanguard poured into the lower bailey, confronting demons and Warden mages head-on for the first time. As it turned out, Cullen needn’t have been so critical of the Inquisitor’s lineup; a cold snap from Solas froze their enemies in place, making it almost too easy for Shepard and Cole to finish them off with shattering strikes of their daggers.

“Alright, Inquisitor,” Cullen said as the final Warden fell. “You have your way in - best make use of it. We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

“I’ll be fine. Just keep the men safe.”

Shepard rolled her eyes behind Trevelyan, and of course Cullen knew why; the soldiers, Shepard, Cullen himself, all of them were expendable when it came to the Inquisitor’s safety. But the Inquisitor didn’t need to know of the contingency plans they’d created to ensure his continued survival. “We’ll do what we have to,” he offered noncommittally. “Warden Stroud will guard your back, and Hawke will be with our soldiers on the battlements until you arrive.” A shriek overhead interrupted their conversation, and Cullen hand’s twitched on his sword as they looked up at the demons prowling the ramparts. “There’s too much resistance on the walls - our men on the ladders won’t be able to get a foothold. If you can clear the way we’ll cover your advance.”

“Understood,” the Inquisitor nodded. “Let’s go.”

Trevelyan turned from him, the rest of his group moving to follow, and Cullen’s hand shot out of its own free will to hold Shepard back for a moment. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he urged as she looked confusedly at his hand on her shoulder. “No charging down Pride demons.”

He expected her to laugh, or to make some flippant remark, but instead she fixed him with a hard stare. “I don’t play at war, Rutherford,” she said, and then she was gone, a dash of crimson hair the last he saw of her as she darted after the Inquisitor, and he couldn’t quite account for the strange feeling in his chest as he watched her leave. Worry, perhaps, but that didn’t make sense; she was nigh indestructible, a force of nature who made flooring Qunari look easy. Why would he need to worry about her?

He shook his head, turning his attention to the troops which were now reaching the lower bailey in force, quickly coordinating with his deputies to direct their attacks on the garrison. The Inquisition’s other companions, thankfully, had crossed the battlefield safely; the Chargers stampeded past Cullen, laughing raucously as Bull beheaded a Fear demon without even slowing down, and Cassandra quickly took to the walls with Dorian, no instruction necessary for the woman who’d painstakingly committed their strategy to memory.

The battle marched on, clashing swords and ferocious cries ringing through the night, and once the majority of his forces were inside Cullen took to the battle himself, fighting alongside his men to secure the eastern wall. It gave him the vantage point he needed over the main bailey, allowing him to better direct his troops to secure the Inquisitor’s path to Clarel, and as he did so out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar flash of blue magic. He turned his attention below him to watch for the Inquisitor’s progress, but the Inquisitor wasn’t there; it was just Shepard, concealed from view behind one of her barriers as three Wardens bore down on her, and he had absolutely _no_ idea what she was trying to achieve. Shepard was, without exception, an offensive fighter; he’d never once known her to throw up a shield when instead she could Charge down her foes, but here she was, cornered with only a flickering barrier between her and three enemies she should have been able to defeat easily. She was either hurt or exhausted, but either way she was in trouble.

Cullen cast around for a path back down the battlements, quickly scrambling down a half-destroyed stairway to the ground below him and raising his shield as he charged at the Wardens. The first warrior, taken unawares by the rear assault, fell before he could even turn to defend himself; he stunned the second with a shield bash then focused on the third, pressing into the attack to push the warrior away from Shepard. The Warden was a formidable foe; she parried relentlessly against Cullen’s strikes, narrowly missing his neck in one particularly violent riposte, but Cullen’s endurance sustained him as the Warden’s moves grew tired and sloppy, and he finished her with a final twisting blow to her flank.

He turned back to his final opponent just in time to block his rapidly descending sword, fleetingly noticing that their little corner of the bailey was no longer bathed in a blue glow; as he pushed out of his block a hand darted out from behind the warrior, swiftly drawing a dagger across the Warden’s throat. He staggered forward and collapsed, twitching on the floor for a moment before falling completely still, and as Cullen looked away from the body and up at Shepard he froze, words stuck in his throat as he realised it was _not_ Shepard but rather… someone else. Someone else, with similar magic to Shepard, but who was very clearly not human.

To the untrained eye, it would be easy to mistake the woman in front of him for a desire demon; Cullen, however, was painfully familiar with the creatures, and he could tell in an instant this was not one. For instead of horns there were ridges; instead of purple skin there was blue, and instead of some sultry garb there was hard steel. Instead of that awful, predatory smirk, there was a look of sheer terror. And in the back of his mind, there was a half-remembered story from an apostate he’d been sure had been lying to him.

He took a step forward as his mind clutched for the name of the species he’d been told only once; she threw her hands in front of her, palms facing outward and glowing with barely-restrained magic. “Do _not_ come any closer,” she warned, so he didn’t, sheathing his sword and putting his hands up in surrender.

“I do not intend to hurt you.”

“If you think you can _bargain_ with me for money or women, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He looked at her for a long moment, small snippets of information he’d gathered over the years coalescing in his mind and revealing a truth he never would have believed without seeing her. “It’s Liara, isn’t it?” he concluded, and the woman narrowed her eyes at him, the magic at her fingertips flaring infinitesimally.

“How do you know my name?”

Because once he’d used vague knowledge of her to lure her friend to the Gallows, though that was probably not the answer he should give. “Shepard talks,” he told her instead, shrugging slightly. “A lot.”

“Is she here?” she breathed, and Cullen nodded; Liara dropped her magic immediately, fumbling at her collar and pulling out the chain and glowing vial he’d taken - _stolen_ \- from his old Order a lifetime ago. “I knew it. I knew she’d come.” She looked back at him, no longer suspicious but curious. “Who are you? How do you know Shepard?”

“I’m the Commander of the Inquisition. Shepard is… a mutual friend.” It wasn’t what he intended to say; he meant to tell her that Shepard was working for them, and she was safe, and desperately worried about Liara. But instead the word _friend_ had slipped from his lips, vocalising for the first time the truth he’d long denied, and saying it - hearing himself say it - was oddly… _freeing_. They were friends, and he cared about her. And he really hoped she wouldn’t die doing something stupid today.

Liara relaxed a fraction further, offering him a tentative smile. “Any friend of Shepard is a friend of mine - especially one who asks questions before attacking me. What is your name?”

He hesitated, unsure if the truth was wise; even if Liara hadn’t read the _Tale of the Champion_ , surely Shepard would have viciously recounted her stabbing. “Dorian,” he said the first name that came to mind, internally grimacing at how insufferable the mage would be if he discovered the impersonation. “Dorian Pavus.”

“And you’re a Templar?”

“How—” he began, but she answered before he had a chance to finish the question, indicating to the faint insignia of the Order on Cullen’s vambraces. “I was,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Shepard made friends with a Templar once before,” she noted, and he’d definitely made the right decision in concealing his identity. “It didn’t end well. Why do you still wear them?”

“One should not forget where they come from - however much they might want to.” That was a vast oversimplification, but she didn’t press him any further, for which he was grateful. “Shepard is with the Inquisitor,” he continued. “They are looking for Clarel and the magister. You should stay with me until we come across them.”

“I will. Thank you, Dorian.”

Cullen made sure to remain close to Liara as they returned to the battle. Despite how he’d found her, she was a decent fighter; she could Throw demons out of their path with as much force as Shepard could, but at close range - like many mages - she was vulnerable. She had a few knives on her belt but Cullen ensured she barely had to use them, cutting down the enemies in their path as Liara guarded them against ranged assaults.

“We thought Corypheus had you captive,” Cullen spoke again as he reached his previous vantage point, quickly surveying the field once more. “What happened? How did you escape?”

“That is… a long story,” Liara said, somewhat evasively, looking down at the bailey below them. “We can talk about it once this is over. I want to find Shepard; where—”

“Commander.”

Cassandra’s voice interrupted Liara, and Cullen turned, swiftly positioning himself in front of Liara. “The Inquisitor has reached Clarel,” Cassandra reported as she and Dorian reached him. “Reports from your troops indicate losses on the walls have been minimal, and Blackwall has even managed to persuade…” she trailed off as her gaze flickered to Cullen’s shoulder, to where Liara had now edged round to stand next to him, and the Seeker’s face turned hard as she readied her sword.

“Cassandra,” Cullen began, taking another step to block off Liara, one palm pushed out in front of him. “I need you to listen—”

“Cullen, get away from it.”

“ _Wait_ ; this is—”

“Cullen?” Liara echoed the name, frowning up at him. “But… you said your name was Dorian.” The real Dorian let out a peal of amused laughter, emphatically pressing his lips together at a sideways glare from Cassandra. “Cullen,” Liara repeated, puzzling over the name for a moment before furious comprehension dawned on her. “You—you’re the Knight-Captain! The one who stabbed Shepard!”

“Liara, let me explain—”

“ _No_!” she screeched, sparking blue in an instant and Throwing him backwards; he careened into Cassandra and Dorian, sending them all clattering to the ground. Disorientated, he looked around to see her already fleeing across the battlements, phylactery glowing in her hand; as he struggled to stand Cassandra put a hand under his armpit and pulled him roughly to his feet, then bashed him squarely in the chest with her shield with such force he almost lost his footing a second time. 

“You are consorting with a demon! Have you lost your mind?!”

“Damnit, that’s Shepard’s friend!”

“So the magister was telling the truth! Meaning Shepard lied, and that we have a demon’s thrall protecting the Inquisitor!” She let out a grunt of frustration as she slammed him with her shield again, though this time he was able to block most of the blow; he grabbed onto the shield as she withdrew, pinning it to protect himself from further assault.

“Just listen to me! I know demons, and she is _not_ one.”

“She is _blue_ ,” Cassandra hissed, eyes blazing and looking like she wanted to throttle him as she wrenched her shield out of his grasp.

“Desire demons are generally purple,” Dorian noted, frowning at his robes as he brushed off the dust from his fall. “Also, they rarely turn on their targets after discovering questionable actions from their Templar heyday. I vote we give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“This is not a vote, _Tevinter_.”

“Why can you not just trust that—”

“Enough, both of you!” Dorian shouted, stepping between them and pointing up at the sky. “Look!”

An ear-splitting screech filled the sky as he spoke, and they looked up to find the same awful sight that had descended upon them at Haven. “The Archdemon,” Cassandra breathed as the twisted dragon’s form landed atop one of the towers. “We did not prepare for this.”

She was right, they hadn’t, but there was no point in dwelling on that now. “It will be after the Inquisitor; they’ll need backup. You!” Cullen shouted at the soldiers nearest to him, three young men looking shaken but pleased as they stood over the remains of a Fear demon. “Find Knight-Captain Rylen on the southern wall. Tell him to withdraw his troops from their position and follow that dragon, on Commander Cullen’s order!”

“Yes, sir!”

“We should follow too,” Cullen continued. “They will need all the support they can get against that thing.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra nodded, and though Dorian looked less than thrilled at the prospect of chasing down an Archdemon he nodded too. The three of them took off in the direction of the creature, with less resistance along the way than Cullen expected; the Warden warriors no longer seemed to be attacking them, their swords now turned on the demons, and whether they’d received new orders or had simply rebelled against Clarel he didn’t have time to establish. Regardless, Cullen occasionally paused in their pursuit to issue new orders to his own men, instructing them to fight alongside anyone who fought the demons, and to only attack those Wardens who struck at the Inquisition first.

They chased the Archdemon higher through the fortress, following screeches and falling rubble until they levelled off at the northernmost tower. As they turned the final corner they were at last confronted by the Archdemon; it had cornered the Inquisitor’s party on the precipice of the battlements, but before Cullen could conjure up any sort of plan there was a flash of lightning magic, followed by a heartstopping crack as the battlements started to crumble.

“The Inquisitor!” Cassandra yelled as the dragon flew off injured, rushing forward to where their companions were now desperately trying to scrabble to safety. Cullen followed, heart hammering and hand outstretched as he tried in vain to reach Trevelyan, though it was no use; the Inquisitor was the first to fall, followed by Cole and then Shepard as the fractures through the stone overtook them, and as Solas too slipped from sight Cullen knew he ought to be concerned about the very real possibility of the loss of their leader. But as he watched on, utterly impotent as they each plummeted out of view, all he could think of was Shepard.

“Shepard!”

The cry sounded out just as the ground stopped shaking, and Cullen turned his head to see Liara racing towards them, having finally caught up with her friend too late. She pushed past Cassandra to the jagged edge of the battlements, ignoring Cullen as he tried to pull her back to safety, her face breaking into devastation as she stared down the sheer drop. She fell to her knees, Shepard’s phylactery rolling across the cracked stone as she put her head in her hands, and though Cassandra had started speaking Cullen couldn’t hear a word of it; all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears as he focused on the little vial that now rested an inch from where its owner had fallen.

The phylactery was now black, and Shepard was dead.

\---

There was a brief moment, as Shepard fell through the sky, where she regretted never having tried to levitate another person before; freefalling towards terminal velocity was not the ideal condition to test an ability for the first time. Still, she wasn’t a woman to shy away from a challenge, not even in her final moments. So she’d thrown her arms in front of her, trying with all her might to generate a mass effect field around the Inquisitor, and she fancied that, just for a moment, it had worked. But she never knew for certain, because in the next moment Trevelyan had opened a Rift to _somewhere_ and they’d fallen through, saving them all from certain death and completely one-upping her.

She landed, far too softly, on cold stone, and when she looked up Hawke was _above_ her, standing upside-down on a jagged rock formation. “Where the fuck have you brought us, Trevelyan?” Shepard demanded, pushing herself to her feet and surveying her surroundings. It look like some unchartered, uninhabitable planet; the ground was hard and uncultivable, the sky was an eerie tinge of green, and there was a strange sort of _whispering_ all around her that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology,” Hawke grumbled. “This looks _nothing_ like the Maker’s bosom. Can someone help me down?”

“This is the Fade.” It was Solas who answered as Shepard offered her hand to Hawke; with one pull whatever gravitational force that held her in place was negated, and she clattered to the ground. “The Inquisitor opened a Rift - we came through and survived. I never thought I would ever find myself here physically. Look; the Black City, almost close enough to touch. Cole - how does it feel to back home?”

One look at Cole told Shepard he wasn’t enjoying his homecoming; the spirit was pacing, eyes wide and darting around wildly, like a cornered animal desperately searching for an exit. “I-I can’t be here! Not like this, not like me!”

“It’s alright,” Solas tried to soothe him. “We’ll make it right.”

“This place is _wrong_! I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn’t like this!”

As bad as Shepard felt for Cole in his obvious distress, him losing his shit wasn’t helping anything; she cut across him, speaking to Solas as she struggled to get a grasp of the situation. “I don’t understand - how are we _in_ the Fade? I thought the Fade was some sort of metaphysical… something. How can our actual bodies be in an abstract place?”

“ _Some metaphysical something_?” Hawke echoed. “Aren’t you a mage?”

“Who told you that?” Shepard replied, which only served to make Hawke look even more confused. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter where we are or how we got here - we just need to focus on getting out. Inquisitor?”

They all turned to Trevelyan, who had not yet spoken; he was still looking at the Black City, an odd expression on his face. “ _And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world_.”

Shepard groaned, taking a step forward and giving him a quick nudge in the ribs. “Trevelyan! Enough with the Chantry bullshit; we need a plan.”

He blinked, shaking his head and focusing on her, looking suddenly determined. “Right. Well - we got in through a Rift, so hopefully we can get out the same way.” 

“Good,” Shepard nodded, turning to scour the sky for their route back to reality. “There,” she said, pointing to a green swirl in the sky some distance away. “I’m guessing that’s our best bet?”

“Yes - let’s go.”

They took off towards the Rift, Shepard making sure to stay close to the Inquisitor; mainly to guard his back against whatever lurked in the shadows, but also because their companions were quickly driving her mad. Cole’s fearful ramblings about how he didn’t belong were putting her on edge, and apparently nothing could be said that would soothe him; Solas on the other hand was like a child with a new toy, eagerly commenting on each nuance of the strange plane. 

“This is fascinating,” Solas remarked as they passed a waterfall which seemed to descend from nowhere. “It is not the area I would have chosen, of course; but to physically walk within the Fade…”

“Yeah, it’s fucking fantastic.”

“Of course it would not hold the same interest to you, Commander Shepard. Some of the sights you have seen baffle even me.”

That got Shepard’s attention; she rounded on him, eyes narrowing, though he wasn’t even looking at her. “How do _you_ know what I’ve seen?”

“I was curious after hearing what Cole had to say about you, so I visited you in the Fade whilst you slept,” he replied, completely matter-of-fact as he turned his attention to a sinister-looking altar of skulls. “You dream of the most remarkable things.”

“Because _that’s_ not creepy. You could’ve just asked me what you wanted to know.”

“You were clearly unnerved when I did try to speak with you, and you have avoided me ever since,” he pointed out, finally looking up at her. “But if you are offering, I would welcome an opportunity to discuss your experiences with you further.”

“Maybe we should focus on getting out of here first,” the Inquisitor interrupted, for which Shepard was grateful. “Solas - you’re the expert on this place. Anything helpful?”

“Yes. The Fade is shaped by intent and emotion; remain focused, and it will lead you where you wish to go,” Solas told them, happy to return to his favourite topic. “The demon that controls this area is extremely powerful; some variety of Fear, I would guess. I suggest you remain wary of its manipulations, and prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”

Shepard exchanged a brief, derisive look with Hawke, who was clearly just as unconvinced that _fascinating_ was the correct description. Objectively, she knew she should be just as interested as Solas in their surroundings, but the Fade didn’t fill her with the same sense of adventure that a new planet did - if anything, it filled her with dread. She’d rarely encountered a location where life couldn’t somehow fight through, but the barrenness - the _desolation_ \- of the Fade was stifling; the thick green air threatened to smother her, and the unfathomable murmurings scratched at the base of her skull and sent shivers down her spine. And whilst they traversed the impossible terrain, and Solas enthused about the uniqueness of it all, she couldn’t forget that a battle raged on and people died for them in reality.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gasp from Warden Stroud; she immediately reached for her daggers, sure that nothing in this place that could surprise the Grey Warden could be good. “By the Maker. Could that be—?”

“I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion.”

The woman who addressed them, who smiled softly and extended her arms to them, immediately set Shepard on edge, for there was no way the old woman in Chantry clothes was what she seemed. “Divine Justinia,” the Inquisitor breathed, staring at the woman as though she was a vision sent from his Maker. “But… I thought you were dead.”

 _The Divine_ ; that accounted for the astonished expressions of both Trevelyan and Hawke, but Stroud at least remained wary. “I fear the Divine is indeed dead,” he told them. “It is likely we face a spirit. Or a demon.”

“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves,” the Divine - or whatever she really was - pointed out. “In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have. I am here to help you.”

That was all Shepard needed to hear to know the true nature of the creature. She hadn’t learnt much in the Circle, aside from how best to avoid a Templar’s late-night patrol, but she did remember the lesson that the Enchanters had hammered into the Apprentices; that first a demon would offer what you wanted, and then they would take what _they_ wanted. “Your help in exchange for a blood sacrifice, is that about right? Hard pass. Come on, Trevelyan, we need to move,” Shepard said, grabbing hold of his arm and attempting to pull him away, but he stood fast, still staring intently at the creature.

“Shepard, we should listen to her.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s the Divine.”

“No she isn’t!” Shepard exclaimed, turning to Solas when her protest fell on deaf ears; if anyone else would be able to see sense, it was the self-appointed Fade expert. “Tell him, Solas.”

“Not all that lingers in the Fade is sinister in nature. We should at least listen to her.”

Shepard groaned, rubbing her temples as the cynical voice in the back of her mind pointed out she was probably going to die in this place. “Your friend is wise to be wary, but there is no price attached to my help,” the woman spoke again. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

“The Divine wouldn’t—”

“Shh!” the Inquisitor silenced Shepard before she could argue that the _real_ Divine never knew Trevelyan’s title. “No, I don’t.”

“The memories you have lost were taken by the demon that serves Corypheus,” the entity told him. “It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking; it feeds…”

Save for Shepard, every single one of them was now engrossed in what the woman was telling them; Shepard had instead turned her attention to the problem at hand, ignoring the advice offered by the creature in favour of what she could discover herself. The Rift was still far in the distance, and their route to it was unclear; turning away from her party, she quickly scaled a tall, sturdy-looking rock formation nearby to give herself a better view of their path. The road ahead of them offered little variation from what they’d already seen; there was no life or vibrancy tucked out of view, but only the same ragged rocks and stagnant puddles of water, and above it all the Black City loomed in silent accusation.

The cursed city might have been beautiful if it wasn’t quite so haunting. 

Focusing instead on the winding paths that stretched out across the Fade, she began to map the best route ahead in her mind, trying her best to commit crumbling landmarks to memory. But the terrain just didn’t seem to make sense; with every swirling wisp of green the landscape seemed to shift, consuming the road ahead and twisting the form she’d been learning into something new. _Shaped by intent_ , Solas had said, and she intended to get out of there - so why was it thwarting her?

“Shepard! Get down here!”

Looking down to where four wraiths had now appeared, she sighed as she jumped down from her ledge, unsure if the fall would even hurt in the Fade but manipulating the mass effect fields around her nonetheless. They didn’t really need her help; they outnumbered and outpowered the shades without her, but she took down one of the wraiths anyway, disintegrating it with a quick Warp as Trevelyan sliced through it with his sword.

She smiled to the Inquisitor as the demon turned to ash, but he didn’t return it, instead focusing on a glowing orb the wraith had left behind; sticking out his marked hand, he linked to it as she’d seen him do with Rifts, an emerald ribbon sparking from his palm and connecting him to it.

“What are you doing?”

“Were you listening to any of that?”

“No; _I_ was trying to figure out a way out of this place. What are you doing?” she repeated as he moved to another orb of light, and then another, repeating his linking action over and over with a look of intense concentration.

“The Divine says I have to recover my memories to get out of here. Then we can— _argh_!”

Quite suddenly the air - no, not the air, the _reality_ \- around them shifted, and she was somewhere else, watching on as the Divine struggled against magical binds. The edges were fuzzy, like a fading dream or a vid filmed on Earth long ago, but her captors were clear; it was the Grey Wardens who held her for sacrifice as Corypheus stalked towards her. A door behind them sprung open, and Trevelyan - a Trevelyan who seemed so much younger than he did now - burst through, and as he picked up the orb the Divine had knocked from Corypheus’ grasp the scene dissolved around them, and they were back in the Fade once more.

The real Trevelyan stared down at his marked palm - the palm which had touched Corypheus’ orb - with a look that could only be described as _broken_ , and for a brief moment Shepard thought he was going to cry. But instead his face turned hard, and he clenched his fist, voice quavering as he addressed the Divine.

“So… I wasn’t chosen. _This_ ,” he said, unclenching his fist to spark green and glaring at it as though he wished to sever it from his body, “is just because… because _nothing_. Because I took a wrong turn in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Because I can’t follow directions. Andraste, the Maker - they had nothing to do with it.”

“If you believe in the Maker, then you believe he made this world and everything in it, including what passed at the Temple,” the Divine offered. “If you had not intervened, Corypheus would have used the Anchor to enter the Fade and throw open the doors of the Black City. Instead, you disrupted his plan, and the Anchor was bestowed upon you.”

“The Maker often works in mysterious ways,” Stroud agreed.

“Indeed. But you cannot escape the lair of the Nightmare until you regain all that it took from you. You have recovered some of yourself, but now it knows you are here. You must make haste; I will prepare the way ahead.”

Before Shepard could enquire into what they might face ahead the Divine was just _gone_ , vanished into thin air, and as Hawke and Stroud began to argue the Inquisitor turned on his heel, wordlessly pressing forward towards the Rift. The others trailed behind, speculating over whether the woman they’d encountered was truly the Divine, but Shepard quickly jogged to catch up with Trevelyan; his face was still hard, glaring at the path ahead of him and jaw set so tightly she was surprised she couldn’t hear his teeth grinding.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he forced out, in a tone which firmly told her he was _not_ fine.

“Stroud’s right, you know. Just because Andraste didn’t personally bless you with that mark doesn’t mean the Maker didn’t have a hand in it.”

“You don’t believe in the Maker,” he grumbled. “And you don’t believe I was chosen. You don’t even believe that was the Divine.”

He was right, and meaningless affirmations wouldn’t do anything to help him; she tried again, choosing to be honest with him this time. “Fine. Do you want to know what I really think? I think that whole ‘Chosen One’ rhetoric is bullshit. It’s much more impressive when a normal person stands up and chooses to be a hero, just because it’s the right thing to do.”

His expression softened ever so slightly, transitioning from anger to sadness, and she wasn’t sure it was an improvement. “I didn’t stand up,” he muttered. “I was thrown in.”

“Even better; I would have told Cassandra to shove her Inquisition up her ass.” Somehow, a weak smile cracked through his solemn expression, and she squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. “Come on. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can buy you a very large drink.”

\---

Out of the Fade the battle raged on, and Cullen fought on. He had the inconsolable Liara escorted to a safe bastion within the Keep, and had Erimond locked up in the dungeon, and then he returned to the fray, issuing new orders to his troops as he battled beside them. And all of this he executed quite capably, despite the relentless voice in his mind whispering that Shepard was dead.

He had thought Shepard dead once before, of course; he’d believed for years that he’d killed her until suddenly she was _back_ , crashing into his life with that singular brute force of hers. And that first death had haunted him in its time; he’d mourned the loss of a good woman, had felt guilty at the blood on his hands, had felt ashamed at his own pitiful cowardice. But he hadn’t felt like this. This time it _hurt_ , deep in his chest, as though she’d Charged straight through him and left an aching hole behind, and more than anything he blamed himself for it, because he’d been stupid enough to admit that he cared.

The Inquisitor was also probably dead, and he knew that ought to be his main concern. Though the tide of the battle was turning - though the unbound Wardens were now fighting with them - it didn’t matter if they’d lost the Inquisitor; without their leader, without the only person capable of closing Rifts, they’d lost the war regardless of whether they won the battle. But despite all that planning to protect Trevelyan during their siege - the new armour, the trailing archers, the constant magical shielding - it wasn’t the Inquisitor he thought of now, and it was so frustratingly illogical that he might have been annoyed at Shepard for it, if only it didn’t hurt quite so much. 

Cassandra, more solemn than Cullen had ever seen her, had offered to retrieve the bodies of their fallen comrades, and though Cullen knew it was his responsibility he just _couldn’t_ , because the moment he looked upon those broken bodies he’d be finished. So he’d let Cassandra do what he could not, and when the Seeker returned to him half an hour later with _hope_ Cullen ought to have been relieved, because if the Inquisitor had fallen through a Rift then there was a chance - the smallest of chances - that they were all still alive.

Except for Shepard. He knew Shepard was dead.

He knew because he’d picked her phylactery from the ground, and placed it in his breast pocket beside his coin, and whenever there was a lull in the battle he took it out and looked at it, half-expecting it to be glowing once more. Because Shepard couldn’t be dead; the irrepressible, incorrigible mage was too full of life to just be _gone_ , to have slipped away so quietly and unceremoniously. Such an end was insulting, and she would have been insulted by it; she would have stayed alive out of sheer spite, to mock the universe for daring to kill her in such a way.

But every time he withdrew her phylactery, it remained black, and Shepard remained dead. And the pain in his chest remained also, completely disproportionate to the injury.

\---

The Fade was fine. Weird, but fine. The creeping smog, the flickering shadows, that _fucking constant whispering_ ; none of it could hurt Shepard, so she was fine. At best it could unnerve her, but it couldn’t, because she was an intergalactic explorer who’d kicked a race of sentient machines down to robot Hell, and this was just another unknown territory for her to traverse. It was nothing she hadn’t experienced before. It was all fine.

At least, it was fine until the Nightmare started talking.

It went for Trevelyan first, predictably preying on his fear of failure; it taunted him, picked at his already-fragile self-esteem until he no longer remembered Shepard’s words of encouragement. It took only a few words to strike Cole, sending him into a frenzy of frantic mutterings. Stroud hit back with anger, and Hawke with sarcasm, but despite their deflections Shepard still saw the pain in their eyes as the monster needled them, twisting out their deepest fears for all to see. It was only Solas who appeared unmoved, impervious to the Elven criticism from the demon.

And then it found Shepard.

“And what an _honour_ it is, to be in the presence of the saviour of the galaxy,” the ethereal voice drawled, sarcasm thick in its tones. “Do you think they remember you as a hero? _You_? The murderer; the destroyer of worlds?”

She could feel the eyes of her companions on her, and though the words struck hard in her gut she refused to show the damage they inflicted. “Don’t forget ‘destroyer of demons’,” she hit back, glaring at the sky above her. “I’m coming for you.”

“Ah, but of course; destruction is your speciality,” the Nightmare retorted, and she realised too late the mistake she’d made with her threats. “The Normandy went up in flames. Garrus died screaming as smoke engulfed him, Tali’s corpse in his arms, and with his last breath Joker cursed your name. They knew what you did, and in their final moments they hated you. Now not even Thane awaits you beyond the sea.”

And then she had no words to battle back with; her throat closed up as the whispers around her turned to buzzing and the air pressed in, even her breathing a struggle as she fought to shut out the images the Nightmare forced on her. _Not now_. She couldn’t let the knowledge she’d suppressed for years finally overwhelm her, not when the Inquisitor needed her more than ever, but… 

But maybe she deserved to feel like this. They were her crew, her _friends_ , and she’d never even mourned them; she’d shut out all memory of them, and their fate, because it was easier than facing the truth. The truth that she’d killed them.

Commander Shepard: murderer, destroyer of worlds. Coward.

“Stop hurting her.” It was Cole, of all of them, who came to her defence, the little spirit facing down the monster despite how he too shook from its jibes, and though the Nightmare laughed it said nothing further. It was just enough to ground her, for the buzzing in her ears to subside as she exhaled the breath that had been trapped in her lungs.

“Demons will resort to any trickery to disarm their target, but remember; its words cannot hurt you,” Solas told them, and she wasn’t sure if the remark was intended for her or Trevelyan. “We will soon be gone from this place.” 

“Not before I _annihilate_ that thing,” Shepard muttered, then winced, because that was exactly what the demon had accused her of. Because it was right about her. “Damnit, I—”

“Watch out!” Trevelyan shouted, and in the next moment she was on the ground, pulled down by the Inquisitor as a projectile soared over her head and exploded on the wall behind them; she looked around wildly for the source, only for her breathing to stop once more when she located the creature she’d hoped to never see again.

“ _Shit_.”

She scrambled to her feet as the Ravager readied its cannon a second time, diving behind a cluster of rocks for cover and pulling the Inquisitor with her; she pushed down firmly on his shoulder to keep him protected as she poked her head out of their refuge, the pit in her stomach deepening as she realised it was not just one Ravager but _four_. Hawke and Solas were doing what they could from a distance, arrows and ice striking against hard armour and causing Swarmers to spawn forth from the creatures, but it wasn’t enough; how could their medieval weapons ever hope to stand against a being created for carnage?

“Cole, no!” Shepard shouted as the spirit ran towards them, daggers readied, but he didn’t listen; he kept going, flickering out of sight as a Ravager turned its targeting laser towards him. “Stay down,” she told Trevelyan, pulling her own daggers from her back. “Those things are a _fucking_ nightmare.”

“Not a chance,” he replied as he readied his own weaponry, and she briefly considered putting him in a stasis field - but she couldn’t waste a prolonged cooldown trying to protect him when she needed to save energy for her barrier. Besides; if she drew their attention, they wouldn’t even look towards the Inquisitor. Hopefully.

She jumped from cover, Charging at the nearest Ravager before she could even stop to consider what a bad idea it was; she connected head-on and it staggered backwards, its front sac exploding and unleashing more Swarmers. With two punishing strikes of her daggers it fell, but now the other three were closing in, and it was _such_ a risk but she really had no other option; she jumped and slammed back down to the ground, unleashing the energy coiled in her barrier and throwing her enemies high into the air.

The Rachni crashed back down to the ground, shrieking and twitching, but before Shepard could summon the energy to finish them the warriors closed in, running each through with their longswords until the creatures finally, mercifully, fell silent.

“Maker,” Trevelyan muttered, shaking his head as he looked towards Shepard. “I am _very_ glad you’re on our side.”

“Those were little fears,” Solas murmured, bending down to inspect one mangled corpse and looking disappointed when it flickered and disappeared, assimilated once more by the Fade. “Tiny manifestations spawned from the Nightmare itself.”

“ _Little_?” Hawke shrieked, her composure for once slipping. “They were giant! Giant bloody spiders!”

“They weren’t spiders; they were Rachni. Indoctrinated Rachni.”

It was shameful, really, how the Rachni made Shepard shudder. Even the undoctrinated ones - the ones who’d worked with them, the ones she’d saved - elicited some primal fear response in her, sending shivers down her spine and telling her muscles to _run_. But the ones that had been twisted by the Reapers into something wholly unnatural, like these ones - they were the ones that haunted her, that made her gun-hand shake, that made her fear so intensely for her crew’s safety.

Of course it hadn’t been the Rachni that had killed them in the end. It had been her.

“Remember - we walk in the Fade,” Solas told them. “Demons of Fear shape their appearance to unnerve each of us.”

“Which explains why they were on fire,” Trevelyan muttered. “We need to get out of here.”

“Agreed,” Shepard nodded. “This whispering is driving me mad.”

“What whispering?” Stroud frowned.

“Wh- _that_ whispering!” she exclaimed, throwing her hand up to the air. “All around us; can’t you hear it? It’s like- like—”

“A sour yellow note.”

Cole was right, that was _exactly_ what it was, but knowing the sound didn’t help; if anything it made it louder, sent tendrils of the discordant tune burrowing deeper into her skull to take root in the very centre of her mind. And she knew it wasn’t real - the Reapers were destroyed, and there were no notes for them left to play.

But still; _that sound_.

“Ah, I see; Fear shaping the Fade again,” she said, trying to force lightness into her voice, though the words came out cracked and unnatural. “This Nightmare is having a field day.”

“We need to get out of here,” Trevelyan repeated, placing his shield on his back but keeping his sword ready. “Stay on the lookout for more of those things.”

He turned, and they each followed him, all far too preoccupied with personal fears to offer any comfort to the rest. It only made the sour note louder, and Shepard groaned, rubbing at her ears to try and drown the music out.

“I wish I heard whispering,” Hawke muttered, bow loose in her grip and scratching along the cracked ground. “I just hear screaming.”

\---

They pushed on past each new fear that lay in wait; the despair demons which stalked Cole, the dead elves with hollow eyes who hissed ancient condemnations at Solas. The wall of fire which closed in on Trevelyan and consumed the scared Earth boy Shepard had failed long ago. The tombstones, standing tall, proudly bearing their deepest fears - all except for Shepard’s. Shepard’s tombstone was destroyed, mere rubble across the caliche ground, the final condemnation of the actions she’d tried so hard to justify.

Out of all of them, Trevelyan was the one keeping it together, finding his resolve in recovered memories and comfort in the spectre who he clearly believed to be the Divine. He still flinched at the flames which followed him, but he was coping, which was more than could be said for the rest of them; Cole was now silent save for the occasional whimper, and Hawke and Stroud had taken to screaming at each other to distract them from their fears.

“You tore Kirkwall apart and started the Mage Rebellion!”

“To protect innocent mages!” Hawke shouted. “Not madmen drunk on blood magic! But you’d ignore that, because you can’t imagine a world without the Wardens - even if that’s what we need!”

“Clearly the Wardens have fucked up,” Shepard joined in, because at least when they were arguing the whispers in her mind faded ever so slightly. “But they were trying to do something good. If they’d actually succeeded, and ended the Blights forever—”

“They _hurt_ people!” Cole exclaimed, eyes wide and reproachful.

“Do you honestly think their actions are justified?!” Hawke demanded.

“No; killing your friends in a crazy blood ritual is obviously bad. But sacrificing innocent lives to end a war… sometimes _that_ is necessary.”

“Yes - the Nightmare has made clear the lengths _you_ would go to in war,” Solas scoffed, and the judgement in his voice was enraging.

“You listen here—”

“Sweet Maker, can all of you just shut up?!” the Inquisitor interrupted, a preemptive hand in front of Shepard to stop her from squaring up to Solas. “We can all argue once we’ve escaped from…”

His sentence died as they emerged from their canopied path and were immediately confronted with the demon that had been tormenting them. “From that,” Shepard completed, mouth slightly open as she gazed up at the horror which towered over them; whatever she’d been anticipating, this spider-like creature - bigger even than a Thresher Maw - was far worse.

“The Rift! We’re almost there!” Hawke exclaimed, which was true - except for the _giant fucking monster_ which stood in their way.

“You must get through the Rift, Inquisitor,” the glowing visage of the Divine told them. “Get through, and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons, and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.” She pushed past them, sparkling gold, floating towards the demon with none of the fear that had plagued the mortals in the realm, and whatever she truly was - spirit, soul, the final flickers of the Divine’s being imprinted on the Fade - there was no denying she was magnificent. “If you would, please tell Leliana - I am sorry, I failed her too.”

The Divine turned even brighter, a blazing beacon above them, expanding and sparking as she faced down the Nightmare; she erupted, splitting the sky with a blinding light, and when they were finally able to look up once more she was gone. She’d driven the Nightmare back, and in its place was a smaller - but still far too big - Fear demon; they readied their weapons once more, Trevelyan leading the charge toward it.

_You will know pain, Shepard._

The Nightmare’s voice was _in_ Shepard’s head rather than around her, needling her, old taunts resonating against the jarring melody it had already planted, and she was going to _end_ this thing even if it was the last thing she did. “Run!” she yelled, hitting the demon with a Warp; it howled, flickering blue as the Inquisitor struck out at it. “Trevelyan, run! Get to the Rift!”

“You don’t - need to - _coddle_ me!” he grunted between swings of his sword.

“I’m not!” 

_You cannot resist._

The Aspect of the Nightmare flickered, fading out and reappearing across the battlefield, sending its little terrors at them once more. “We’ll take the spiders!” Hawke called across, working now with Solas to shatter frozen Rachni with a hail of arrows. “Focus on that demon!”

Shepard exchanged a brief look with Trevelyan, nodding to each other in wordless agreement before bearing down on the Aspect with their weapons raised high. Shepard took the flank, twisting round the demon with disorienting swipes of her daggers as Trevelyan faced it from the front, staggering it with shield bashes and following through with violent lunges of his sword.

_Face your annihilation._

With the twin strikes of vanguard and warrior the Aspect struggled to stay upright, lashing out desperately to keep its assailants away, and though Shepard could think of six separate ways to finish it she didn’t. Instead she retreated, diving out of reach whilst the Inquisitor sustained his assault, because whilst she _really_ wanted to kill it, it was Trevelyan who needed to.

“Now, Inquisitor!”

_You cannot stop us, Shepard._

He knew what she was asking; he pushed his marked palm out in front of him, sundering the Fade around the demon, and it let out a final pained shriek as it was ripped apart by the very plane it prowled. The noise bounced across the Fade and returned, louder now, echoed by the Nightmare’s true form; it faced them once more, fangs bared and sprawling limbs stretching towards them.

“ _Go_!” the Inquisitor shouted, and they didn’t need telling twice, setting off at full pelt towards the Rift as the Nightmare closed back in on them. Solas dived through the Rift first, then Cole, and Shepard cast a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure Trevelyan was behind her before also jumping through.

_I will find you again._

Green surrounded her, then became her, pushing and pulling and forcing her back to reality, and when she finally hit hard ground her mind was silent once more.

\---

All at once the demons fell, so unexpectedly that - for a moment - the entire battlefield fell silent. It was only when nothing fought back, when no new terror emerged from the shadows to strike out at them, that the cheering started. The victorious cry rippled through the ranks, repeated by Inquisition soldiers and Wardens alike, but Cullen couldn’t bring himself to join in; not when he knew what their success had cost.

“Commander!” One of his runners approached him, face flushed and eyes alight with their triumph. “The Inquisitor has vanquished the demons! He stepped out of the Fade once more!”

“The Inquisitor? He’s alive?”

The runner nodded enthusiastically, and it was fantastic news, really; he knew he should be relieved, should be cheering with his men for their leader’s miraculous survival. But instead he grit his teeth, fingers reaching again for the phylactery in his pocket and closing around the cold, lifeless vial which was now all that remained of his friend, and he hated it; suddenly furious, he glared down at the black—

Red.

Glowing.

_She was alive._

The tension in his muscles broke just as suddenly as the demons had fallen; he actually laughed, half-deranged from relief, beyond caring about the soldier’s quizzical expression. That _impossible_ bloody woman. “Where are they?”

“The main hall. The Inquisitor is—”

He took off before his man had even finished talking, because despite her glowing phylactery he needed to _see_ her, just to be sure. He jogged past his men and the Wardens who had joined them, and as he approached the doorway to the main hall it burst open, the very woman he was searching for barrelling through; for the briefest of moments his eyes met hers, and she looked… sad. Indescribably, achingly sad.

She turned before he could speak, sidestepping him down a different passageway, and he called her name as he followed her.

“Not now,” she replied, without stopping or even looking back at him.

“I need to speak with you; it’s—”

She halted, so abruptly that he nearly ran into the back of her, though she still didn’t face him. “ _Not. Now_.” 

“What happened?”

Finally she turned, looking up at him with that unbearable sorrow in her eyes, and he was hit with a sudden and completely irrational urge to hug her. “You will have my report in due course,” she told him, and she very nearly managed to keep her voice level, but she was betrayed by a crack on the final word.

“I wasn’t asking for your report.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then her gaze flickered to the left of him and her face hardened; he wheeled round, drawing his sword to face whatever foe she’d spotted. Half a dozen Venatori, clearly fleeing their lost battle, had pulled up behind them, their surprise at finding opposition in the disused passageway briefly stunning them out of fighting. Cullen raised his shield, but before he could move Shepard had grabbed him by the scruff of his mantle, pulling him backwards and forcing him behind her shimmering blue form. 

“Stay behind me!” she shouted, and before he had time to protest whatever reckless action she about to take she unleashed her magic, sending a ball of pure energy hurtling at the Venatori. It didn’t connect with them; instead it hung in the air, pulling each and every one of the mages from the ground and into orbit, and she let them struggle for a few seconds before clenching one fist and sparking a violent cerulean once more. Her raw, unbridled power tingled under his skin as it surged through the air, the energy ball splitting into a thousand sapphire fractals and reducing the men to dust.

She turned back to him as their ashes scattered to the wind, her eyes still sparkling with that fantastic blue aura, ferocity radiating from every glowing inch of her, and in that moment two things of which Cullen had always been vaguely aware came into focus with startling clarity. First, that Shepard was probably the most powerful fighter - mage or no - he’d ever met. And second, that she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Her magic faded, her eyes darkening to brown once more, and he realised he was gawking, mouth hanging stupidly open as he looked at her for what felt like the first time all over again; the blood-spattered, fierce, _fearless_ woman who’d saved him from certain death years before suddenly vivid at the forefront of his mind. “You… I - uh - I didn’t know you could do that,” was the sentence that he somehow cobbled together, and her lips twisted into a soft smile that sent goosebumps prickling at the base of his neck.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t hide a trick or two from you?”

 _A trick_ , that was how she described it, as if turning men to dust was as simple as pulling a sovereign from a child’s ear, and he couldn’t work out whether he found her brilliant or terrifying. Both, probably. He tore his gaze away from her, furiously reminding himself that she’d always been - well, _radiant_ \- and that it was wholly irrelevant, because she was also _Shepard_. He was just relieved that she was alive; that was all.

“I need to… not be here right now,” she murmured as her smile flickered and died. “Please, just - you should go find Trevelyan.”

“Shepard…”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she cut him off, which in a way was good, because he had no idea what to say to her - or what she needed to hear. “I’ll be fine. Just go.” She turned from him before he could say anything else, disappearing from view once more, and though he knew her strength it still made him uneasy, because what if he lost her again?

_Completely irrational._

With a great amount of effort he resisted following her, and instead he returned to the main hall as she’d said. It was only later, after the Inquisitor had recruited the Wardens and Hawke had bade them farewell, that he realised he hadn’t told Shepard about her friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took me so long! Please accept this extra long chapter as my apology; I got very waylaid/bored writing the Fade, which is why I ended up diverging from canon and making it 10x worse for Trevelyan and co. At least a few good things happen amongst all the angst?


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning up top that the fallout from Adamant is going to hit hard, and the first part of this chapter gets heavily into Shepard's pre-existing PTSD, so please bear that in mind whilst reading.

Shepard paced a small circle on the outskirts of their camp, her eyes screwed tightly shut, jaw clenched and breath coming out in short bursts. Occasionally a little whimper escaped her lips as her biotics flared at random, and try though she did to claw back control she couldn’t push away the guilt that was smothering her.

“Aethon Cluster,” she muttered to herself, focusing on star clusters to regulate her breathing and to force all other thoughts from her mind. “Aru, Esori, Nura, Satu Arrd.” A sharp breath punctuated each system, and though she tried to keep each exhale steady her whole body was rebelling against her, chest tight and lungs screaming as though she was suffocating in space once more. “Annos Basin - Pranas. Apien Crest. Castellus, Gemmae, Trebia.”

She’d only been in Trebia the one time. Garrus had always spoken fondly of his home planet; he’d once said he’d take her someday, if only to show her how superior it was to Earth. _This wasn’t the trip I had in mind_ , he’d said six months later, his hand in hers as they’d watched Palaven burn above them. Now he was ash, too.

“Stop it,” she told herself fiercely, shaking her head to rid herself of that final image of him – bloody and broken, yet still determined, hand outstretched as he begged her to take him with her. _I’ll get the first round in_ , she’d told him with a smile, turning her head before he could see the tears fall. “ _Stop_. Arcturus Stream; easy, Arcturus and Euler. Argos Rho. Gorgon, Hydra, Phoenix. Armstrong Nebula.”

She always struggled with her home cluster. After Mindoir, after she’d emerged alone from the smoldering wreckage of her childhood, it had been Anderson who’d made her go to therapy; Anderson who’d realised that the angry new recruit was too young to have been accepted into the military. Anderson who’d been the only one not to see her rage as a good thing. And whilst talking about her feelings had never been one of her strengths, the distraction techniques she’d learnt in those sessions had helped; the next time she’d awoken screaming, scarred shoulder burning as a batarian shot her once again from her dreams, she’d tried repeating the names of the systems within Alliance space, and somehow it had worked. It kept working over the years, distracting her just enough to allow her to regain control and force unwanted memories away; suppressing the deafening silence of the broken first Normandy and the face of that nameless Earth boy. But now, when she needed it most, her distraction failed her, the terrible image of her crew’s last moments scorched on her mind’s eye.

The problem was, this was different. She’d just been a kid on Mindoir, and one vastly outnumbered soldier on Akuze. No preparation or tactics could have saved the SR-1. And she couldn’t possibly have screamed any louder to warn the galaxy about the Reapers. But her decision at the heart of the Citadel, and the destruction that decision had wrought; that burden was placed solely on her shoulders, and the bodies of her crew and the Geth were at her feet. They were dead, and it was her fault. When Garrus had spoken of the ruthless calculus of war, he never could have anticipated she’d do this.

“Armstrong Nebula,” she persisted, voice shaking now as she desperately fought back against her own failure. “Gagarin, Grissom, Hong, Vamshi. Athena Nebula. Orisoni, Parnitha… Parnitha… fuck, _fuck_ , no – _fuck_ Kai Leng. Attican Beta - no - Artemis Tau - no - still got - Athena – _shit_ , this is all - going - to - Hell…”

Her breathing spiralled as a ragged sob tore at her throat, and deep down she knew she had been avoiding this moment for far too long. For three years she’d run from what the Nightmare had so gleefully presented, but there was no running from it anymore; not when her crimes had been listed in front of her new colleagues. Not now they knew what she was.

_Murderer. War criminal. Destroyer of worlds._

They wouldn’t want her anymore.

“There you are,” a fuzzy voice broke through the pounding in her ears; her eyes snapped open, and though her vision was blurry and her head was spinning she could still make out Cullen approaching her. It had to be _fucking_ Cullen, didn’t it? “I forgot to—”

He stopped abruptly - both in his speech and in his movement - as he registered her appearance, and though she quickly turned her back to him it didn’t change the fact that he’d _seen_ her. He’d seen all of her; the anger and grief and even the fucking _tears_ she’d pushed down deep inside her were finally on show for him of all people to see, and with that the illusion of _Shepard_ was gone. That controlled, indomitable woman she tried so hard to be had crumbled, and in her place was what she’d always been; an overemotional, broken kid who still screamed at night over old wounds which refused to heal.

“Shepard…” he began, and the softness of his voice was unbearable; she shot him a frown over her shoulder, though she sensed the effect was lost amongst her jagged breaths and shaking fists.

“ _Go away_.”

She closed her eyes again, holding her breath now to stop him from hearing the pathetic sounds she was making, but it just made her feel like she was choking, the air in her lungs hitching violently against her tightened throat. She was vaguely aware of his footsteps and, though she assumed he was leaving like she’d told him, the next thing she heard was his voice in front of her. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just—just breathe—”

“Oh, what a - a - _novel_ idea,” she forced out between gasps. “I never thought - _breathing_ —”

“Maker, Shepard - stop trying to be witty for once and — _breathe in_. One, two, three. Breathe out. One, two, three.”

He counted out each breath for her over and over, and out of desperation she latched onto it, because there was little point in fighting him when he’d already seen how weak she was; somehow his voice provided the anchor she needed, his mantra allowing her to focus solely on the rise and fall of her chest. Ever so slowly, each breath became easier, the tightness in her lungs loosening with each shaky exhale, and it was only when it settled entirely that Cullen went quiet too.

Finally, she opened her eyes, and he was farther away than she’d thought; there was a good six feet between them, his arms folded across his chest and his face unreadable in the moonlight. It was either a conscious decision not to invade her personal space, or a Templar instinct to distance oneself from an unstable mage - the latter, probably.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, scrubbing at her cheeks as if removing the tear-streaks would make him forget what he’d just witnessed; his expression cracked, looking so sombre that she had to twist away from him again, because seeing him regard her like _that_ was more than she could bear.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said quietly, taking a tentative step closer towards her. “If you want to talk about—”

“I don’t.”

They were silent for a long moment, though she didn’t want him to leave, his presence grounding her somehow; he was something solid, tangible, the immovable object who’d always seemed to get in her way, but right now she was strangely grateful for him. “The Inquisitor mentioned the Nightmare,” he began slowly, seeming to pick his words with great care. “Whatever that demon said, or did - you cannot let it stay with you. They twist reality and look for ways to break you, but you… you’re stronger than it was.” 

He was being entirely too nice to her, and it made her want to cry again, because it wasn’t meant to be like this; she wasn’t meant to struggle, and if she did it wasn’t meant to be _Cullen fucking Rutherford_ who helped her. “Did Trevelyan tell you what the Nightmare said?”

“No. Just that it was… unkind.” He’d find out the awful details in due course, when the rest of the group submitted their reports on what had passed in the Fade, but for now his ignorance was a small mercy; he didn’t need a reason to think even less of her. “I… I know how it feels to—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she warned. “Do _not_ tell me you know how I feel.” Her voice was wavering again, and she was in very real danger of letting more tears fall; she knew she needed to stop talking but she just couldn’t help it, suddenly irrationally angry with him and the pity in his eyes. “Everything that demon said was true. I have lost _everything_ I’ve ever loved and it’s all my fault, and now I’m stuck in this fucking— this _hole_ \- with no-one, just wishing I’d died with my crew. How could you possibly know what that feels like?”

His expression changed again, jaw tightening as he dropped his gaze to glare at the ground, and she winced at the thoughtless injury she’d inflicted on him. Kirkwall had been his home, and it had burned; of course he knew what it was like to lose people. She knew she ought to apologise, but his anger seemed preferable to pity at this point. 

“You haven’t lost everything,” he muttered after a while, and she rolled her eyes at the brewing pep-talk. 

“If this is the part where you tell me how the Inquisition is my new family—”

“No, this is the part where I tell you that Liara is here.”

She froze, everything else momentarily forgotten in the wake of his sudden revelation. “ _What_?!”

“It’s fine; she’s fine,” he immediately jumped to reassure her, uncrossing his arms and holding his hands up. “She’s just upset, because we thought you were dead. I meant to tell you before, but— well, there were all those Venatori. But she’s fine.”

“Where is she?” He looked reluctant for a moment, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

“There is a dispute over how to proceed. A disagreement over what she is, which I’m hoping you will settle.”

“ _She’s not_ —”

“—a demon; I know. But some of the others remain unconvinced - Cassandra and Sera primarily.”

That wasn’t a surprise, but it was largely irrelevant what the others thought. Trevelyan had promised when they’d first met that Liara could join them, and if he couldn’t keep that promise - well, then they’d just have to go elsewhere. Even if Shepard wanted to stay. “Right,” she nodded, more to herself than to Cullen, taking another deep breath to prepare herself for the task at hand. If nothing else, shouting at Cassandra and Sera would be an excellent distraction from the lingering images of the Fade. “I just… just give me a minute. Is it obvious that I’ve been upset?”

“A little,” Cullen admitted. “You’ve smudged…” he told her, tracing the lower lid of his own eye; she raised her sleeve to wipe away her smeared makeup, only to groan on remembering she was in metal armour. “She’s your friend; she’ll understand—”

“No; she can’t see me like this,” she said, pulling at the neck of the leather gambeson she wore underneath her armour, though it barely moved an inch; Cullen sighed, rummaging under his own breastplate for a moment before pulling out a handkerchief and offering it to her. “Thanks,” she muttered as she accepted it, blotting away her ruined makeup and the remainder of her tears. “You don’t want this back, do you?”

“No; you hold onto it.”

“Good,” she said, blowing her nose in a loud and completely undignified manner before shoving the fabric into a pouch at her belt. “Alright. Take me to her.”

\---

Liara wasn’t quite sure what had happened after Shepard had died. There were hands on her, and when she next looked up she was in a locked room away from the battle, so she supposed she’d been captured by the Inquisition, but it really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

She had always known their story would conclude this way - with Shepard dying, and Liara being alone. It was the nature of short-lived species to make fleeting imprints on life, and it was the nature of Asari to be introspective, to focus on happier times instead of mourning an inescapable loss. But Liara had never been a very good Asari. The first time Shepard had died she’d been grief-stricken, crushed, unable to comprehend a universe without Shepard in it, and she’d travelled to the ends of that universe for the smallest chance of bringing her back. This time, there was no sadness; there was just emptiness, a hollowness within her chest which went down to her very soul, and she doubted she’d ever feel anything again.

Then the Knight-Captain had returned to her, accompanied by the Inquisitor and the woman from the battlements, with a glowing phylactery and a faint smile on his lips, and she was just so _relieved_ that all the questions she needed to ask completely slipped her mind. So she didn’t know whether she was a prisoner, or whether Shepard was one, or even why the Knight-Captain was arguing in her defence against the angry warrior woman - all she knew was that she needed to see Shepard, and everything else could wait.

Eventually, after an unnecessary amount of back and forth between the warriors, the Inquisitor had agreed that the best course of action was to reunite Liara with Shepard at their camp. They’d given her a hooded cloak as they’d left the fortress, and now she waited impatiently for Shepard in the Knight-Captain’s tent-slash-office, surrounded by members of the Inquisition who ranged from curious to suspicious about her.

“So - Liara,” Dorian - the actual Dorian - began, perched on the Knight-Captain’s makeshift desk and regarding her with a warm sort of interest. “Obviously none of us have met any of your kind before, so tell me - what do you call yourself? Your species, I mean?”

“I’m an—”

“Stop talking to it.”

“Ignore her,” he continued, waving dismissively at the elf who was yet to put down her bow. “She gets irrationally twitchy with me, too. Please, continue.”

“I’m an Asari. I—”

“Inky, tell him to stop talking to it!”

The Inquisitor groaned, rubbing his temples and looking thoroughly drained by the proceedings. “How did you even get wind of this?”

“I’ve got eyes, unlike you. You just escaped Demontown, and now you wanna take one along for the ride?”

“Sera, leave it,” the Inquisitor snapped. “Cullen’s gone to fetch Shepard to straighten this out; until then can you all just play nice?”

“ _I_ am playing perfectly nicely,” Dorian protested. “It’s the rest of you who are being abhorrently rude.”

“There is a difference between rudeness and legitimate wariness,” the warrior from the battlements - Cassandra - argued, and Dorian scoffed.

“Is there? Well, you had me fooled.”

“Enough!”

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, holding his hands up in surrender and turning his attention back to Liara. “Liara - why don’t you tell us how you met Shepard?”

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Liara said, allowing herself a small smile at the memory. “I was conducting a dig at an old Prothean ruin—”

“She found you in an old ruin? Sounds demony.”

“Sera, for the love of the Maker—”

The Inquisitor’s rebuke was cut off as the tent door rustled open and Shepard - _thank the Goddess_ , it really was her - barged inside, followed closely by the Knight-Captain. In an instant Liara could tell there was something not quite right with her - her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were slightly too bright - but before she could scrutinise her appearance too closely her old friend had stepped forward and thrown her arms around her. Liara held her back just as tightly, too overwhelmed with relief to care about the worried looks Cassandra and Sera were exchanging.

“I was so worried,” Shepard muttered, and Liara let out a shaky laugh, because it was utterly ridiculous that _she_ was the one saying that right now.

“As was I. When you fell - I thought you’d died.”

“Come on, T’Soni. It’ll take more than that to finish me.”

Liara pulled back, looking into Shepard’s face once more, and something was definitely wrong; up close she could see just how red her eyes were, her makeup almost entirely washed off around them. Had she been _crying_? “Shepard, are you—”

“Never better,” she smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes; before Liara could say anything else she’d pulled out of her grasp and turned towards the Inquisitor, fixing him with a hard stare. “You promised that Liara could join us when we found her. That was part of me agreeing to join you.”

“You did not tell us that she was…” Cassandra trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Liara.

“Blue?” Shepard completed. “No, I didn’t. So what’s it to be, Trevelyan? You going to renege on your end of the deal?”

They all turned to look at the Inquisitor, who looked distinctly uncomfortable with being put on the spot. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“Fine. Come on, Liara - we’re going.”

Liara knew Shepard well enough to know when she was making an empty threat, but the Inquisition did not; they each began to protest as she moved for the exit, and Shepard stopped, turning back to the Inquisitor to arch an eyebrow at him. “Wait! _Wait_. Just… explain things to me,” the Inquisitor rushed to pacify her. “Because if she joins us, I’m going to have to do a lot of convincing.”

“Why don’t you ask Liara? She’s more than capable of speaking for herself.”

“Nope - gotta hear it from you,” Sera interrupted. “Don’t trust that one not to start going all demony.”

“Sera, I like you a great deal, but if you call her a demon I’m going to take your bow and shove it—”

“Shepard, that isn’t helping!” the Knight-Captain cut in, rubbing at his temples as Shepard shot him a glare. “Liara - please, tell us who you are,” he continued, in a leveller voice, and it was Liara’s turn to frown at him.

In truth, the Knight-Captain was nothing like what she had pictured. The way Shepard had described him had made him sound like a curmudgeonly old man, but he was young, handsome even, with soft eyes and gentle words and more talent in battle than Shepard had given him credit for. He’d even called Shepard a friend, but that didn’t make sense - not when the vision of Shepard, bleeding and paralysed in a burning city, was so deeply etched into Liara’s mind. 

“I never thought I’d see you working with your old Knight-Captain.” 

Shepard shrugged. “I worked with Cerberus, and he’s not half as bad as them.”

“A fair point. Very well; my name is Liara T’Soni,” she said, directing her introduction towards the Inquisitor. “Apparently it needs saying that I am _not_ a demon; my species are known as the Asari. Shepard and I have been friends for many years - since long before she got rounded up by the Templars and stabbed.”

Shepard pressed her lips together, suppressing a smirk as Cullen awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “We heard Corypheus had caught you,” she said. “What happened? How did you end up here?”

Liara’s eyes flickered to the Inquisitor, suddenly very aware of all the people in the room. “We should talk about it later, Shepard.”

“No; I think you should tell us all now,” Cassandra said, looking hard at Liara, and it took her just a moment to adapt the events for their ears.

“I went West, as Shepard and I discussed. I followed some Red Templars to Corypheus’s base, but they caught me. He thought he could use me in his demon ritual at Adamant and sent me here with Magister Erimond, but I managed to give him the slip when your forces invaded.”

The story was flawed, and she knew Shepard could tell as much instantly; her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but whatever she suspected she didn’t voice. “I vouch for everything she’s told you,” she said instead. “So what do you say, Inquisitor?”

He hesitated for a long moment, looking back and forth between Liara, Shepard and Cassandra as though desperately trying to figure out what would annoy the least people. Eventually, he sighed, shrugging his shoulders slightly before sticking his hand out to Liara.

“Welcome to the Inquisition.”

He smiled warmly at her, and for a moment she felt touched by his acceptance, scarcely remembering the last time she’d been acknowledged as a person. But then the implication of his words sunk in, and she ignored his outstretched hand as she turned her attention towards Shepard once more.

“Wait - why are we joining these people?”

“They can help,” Shepard insisted. “Anything they find on Corypheus - any of his research - we’ve got free access to it. Their spy network is huge; they’ve already found so much. It could help us get home.”

Her words were as enthusiastic as they were sincere, and she probably didn’t even realise that they simply weren’t true. But she’d found what she’d been missing for the last three years; now she had an adventure, and a brand new world to save, and even if they found some way home she’d never leave before her job was done. Liara knew more about the Inquisition now, and they were no Cerberus; they wouldn’t just be a means to an end for Shepard. 

“That’s not why you’re here,” Liara muttered, an accusation that had Shepard averting her gaze to the floor, and that silent acknowledgement hurt far much more than it should have. “How long was it after I left that you found yourself a new team? A day? A week?”

“I didn’t go looking for them,” Shepard bristled. “They caught me because of your stupid idea to break into Skyhold!”

“Oh, please; I bet you jumped at the chance to join them!”

“So what if I did? You abandoned me!” That hit Liara hard; she flinched and curled in on herself, folding her arms across her chest. She probably _had_ driven Shepard to the Inquisition, but she wasn’t ready to admit that just yet. “I don’t want to fight with you,” Shepard mumbled, softening as she spoke again. “But can you not just give this a shot?”

Liara sighed, looking around the tent once more. Four in favour, two against. It was a better ratio than she’d had in a long time.

“Fine,” she said, this time shaking the Inquisitor’s hand when he offered it to her once more. “But if your crew keep treating me like I’m less than a person—”

“They won’t,” he said with a pointed look at Sera, who merely pulled a face at him. “Cassandra?”

The warrior considered Liara for a long moment, eyes hard and unblinking as she stared at her. “I do not pretend to understand what you are,” she said slowly. “But I have no reason to mistrust Shepard. I will respect Inquisitor’s decision - for now.”

“How big of you,” Dorian muttered, before smiling brightly at Liara. “Good to have you with us! With you on board I’m only the third-most objectionable of the Inquisitor’s companions; I feel like I’m losing my touch. Speaking of which, where’s our second-most objectionable friend? Cole would love this.”

The Inquisitor exchanged a brief, worried look with Shepard before answering. “I’d leave him be for now,” he said gently. “He’s a little upset after what happened in the Fade.”

“Ah. Because of Stroud?”

Liara didn’t know who or what Stroud was, but the name caused the Inquisitor to flinch, his left hand tightening to a fist before relaxing again. “That, and other things. Get some sleep tonight,” he said, addressing Liara once more. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of my team before we move in the morning.”

“How would you like me to brief our men, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked. “I would not want them attacking Liara on sight.”

“Maker, I don’t know,” the Inquisitor shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “Have Shepard yell at them, maybe.”

“I shall endeavour to find a gentler way of breaking the news,” he replied, smirking slightly as he looked towards Shepard, but she wasn’t paying him any attention; she remained focused on the Inquisitor, an odd expression on her face.

“Thanks, Trevelyan.”

“I’m not the one you need to thank,” he replied, with a nod towards Cullen, but Shepard merely frowned. “Come on - let’s leave our Commander to his work.”

The group dispersed, each person heading back to their own tents - except for Sera, who had opted to bunk with Cassandra rather than accept Liara into her and Shepard’s tent. As such, Shepard led the way back to her tent in silence, taking Liara around the camp periphery to avoid running into anyone else.

“I am glad you’re here,” Shepard eventually said. “They’re good people. Just give them a chance.” She clearly believed that, and it worried Liara even more, because she hadn’t just found adventure; she’d found friends, too. “What?”

“The plan is still to get home - isn’t it?” she asked, slipping back into her native language now she and Shepard were alone.

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?” Liara said nothing else, instead focusing on their path, and after a further moment’s silence Shepard spoke once more. She never could keep quiet for long; at least that hadn’t changed. “What do you think Trevelyan meant by he wasn’t the one to thank?”

“I suppose he means you should thank the Knight-Captain; he was the one who fought for me initially. Even after I…” she trailed off, a little awkwardly, unsure what Shepard would make of the revelation.

“After you what?”

“Threw him across the battlements,” she admitted; Shepard laughed, with that infectious little chuckle she hadn’t heard in such an achingly long time. “He deserved it!” she protested, though she could couldn’t help grinning along with Shepard’s laughter. “He saved me from a group of Wardens but then lied and said he was Dorian!”

“Of course he did; he can’t do one good thing without fucking it up in some way. ‘Here’s your phylactery - whoops! My sword slipped!’.” Her expression changed as her laughter settled, her face softening into a genuine smile. “No, that’s unkind. He’s alright really. And he’s a Commander now; he gets all pissy when you call him Knight-Captain.”

“So you’re telling me I should keep calling him it.” Shepard gave another chuckle, shaking her head slightly. “Are you sure you’re alright? When I first saw you, you looked…” she trailed off, sure that Shepard would never forgive her if she finished with _like you’d been crying_.

“I’m fine,” was her - completely predictable - response, and Liara rolled her eyes. “Seriously. Being in the Fade was just… unnerving. But I’m fine now.”

“Do you think that could be our way back home? Through the Fade?”

“I don’t know,” Shepard said. “Maybe; Corypheus did pull us here. But it’s not like I saw a sign that said ‘Earth this way’.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Did you discover anything whilst they were holding you captive?”

“A few things,” Liara nodded. “I managed to steal some bits and pieces before my escape. I’m not sure how useful they will be, but they’re better than nothing.”

“That’s good. You should show them to Dagna once we get back to Skyhold.” Liara shot her a curious look, and Shepard quickly explained. “She’s a scientist, sort of. You’ll like her; she’s weird. Just - don’t get too freaked out if she asks for a skin sample. She means well.”

“I’m not giving some mad scientist a piece of my skin.”

“She’ll trade you for it. For shiny enchanted daggers,” she said, pointing to the weapons on her back, and Liara rolled her eyes. “So… are you going to tell me what really happened?” she asked as they reached her tent, though they remained stood outside for the moment. “I know you didn’t tell Trevelyan the truth.”

She looked serious all of a sudden, brow puckered in concern, clearly thinking of all the ways Corypheus might have tried to use her. And maybe, if she hadn’t just lied about her experience in the Fade, Liara would have been honest about it. “I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she told her instead.

“Well, when you do… you know where I am,” she offered. She made a move to reach out for her, but seemed to think better of the act halfway through; she hesitated, clenching her fist just shy of Liara’s forearm and returning it to her side. “I really am glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Shepard smiled again, nodding towards their tent. “You should get some rest. I’ve got some jobs I need to do before I turn in.”

“What sort of things are they making you do?”

“Just boring stuff. Co-ordinating with outposts, planning low-stakes missions. Things that are vastly below my pay grade. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Shepard,” she replied, slipping into the tent as her friend disappeared off into the night.

She hadn’t returned by the time Liara had fallen asleep, and when she awoke Shepard was already up and dressed, with dark circles now accompanying her red eyes. Still, she smiled as though nothing was wrong, and it was so convincing Liara very nearly believed her.


	29. Chapter 29

The first night after Adamant was arduous, as Cullen knew it would be. He fought against exhaustion even as his eyelids turned leaden and his reports became incoherent, but it was a battle he was always doomed to lose. Sure enough, when sleep finally consumed him, the demons he’d fought on the battlements came for him again, clawing and clutching at him as they had done for a decade. But unlike at the fortress, in the Fade there was no fighting them; without his army and his senses he was merely prey, their helpless captive until daylight broke through his cage and coaxed him once more into the world of the living.

As it always did, night shifted to day, and dreams faded to reality, retreating and laying dormant until the opportunity for them to strike arose again. But with the morning also came a thrum against his skull and an insatiable ache in his gut for a substance he’d long denied it, and damnit he was meant to be getting _better_ but each day now seemed harder than the last, the end to his struggles forever dancing further out of his reach. Perhaps there would be no end, he thought darkly as he readied himself for the day; perhaps this was his new normal, and each day would continue to grind him down until he was no longer able to perform the simplest of tasks, let alone command an army of hundreds. Anything less than his best risked their lives, and that was unacceptable.

An early meeting had been planned to introduce the Inquisitor’s companions to their newest addition, but Cullen resolved to find Cassandra before then; she’d promised from the start to find an alternative if he could no longer perform his duties, and any delay on his part would only make his conviction falter. A quick circuit of the campsite showed she was neither in her tent nor training; he was just about to head to their meeting point in the hopes of catching her there when Knight-Captain Rylen intercepted him, a sheet of paper clasped in his hand.

“Commander.” Rylen offered a quick salute before handing his report to him, looking worn but as focused as ever. “All men are now accounted for, in one way or another. These are the names of the dead; I thought you’d want them straight away.”

“Thank you,” Cullen replied, accepting the documents from his captain and scanning the names on the list, his spirits falling with each new line. _Too many_. “We shall hold a service for them here before we move.”

“Agreed,” Rylen nodded, pausing for only a second before transitioning into the conversation he’d clearly wanted to start with. “So - I received your circular this morning. What’s the story with this new mage?”

Cullen groaned, running one hand through his hair. The note he’d disseminated the previous evening had been brief and sparse on details, simply referring to Liara as ‘unique’ and discouraging any mistreatment of her. He hoped the forewarning would prevent any attacks on sight of the Asari, though he was not naïve enough to think she would be accepted solely on his word. 

“Her name is Liara,” Cullen began. “She is an old friend of Shepard’s; she’s joining the Inquisition, but I am unsure in what capacity as of yet.”

“An old friend of who?” Rylen asked.

“Shepard,” Cullen repeated. “You met her at Griffon Wing Keep; red hair, short, pr— uh - not unattractive. Talks constantly.”

“The lass with heavier armour than half our Templars?”

“It is disconcerting, isn’t it?” Cullen agreed. “She already has magic; she doesn’t need to bludgeon people to death with her elbows.”

“She’s a mage?” Rylen asked, surprise colouring his tone. “I don’t remember her carrying a staff.”

“She favours daggers.”

Rylen’s expression hardened, hand clasping at the pommel of his sword in a Templar reflex Cullen knew all too well. “Blood mage?”

“No,” he said firmly, and Rylen relaxed once more. “Her fighting style is just… unusual; I think she simply prefers hitting things.” It was both unusual and completely unnecessary; she’d proved the previous night just how deadly she was at long-range, and he’d never even seen that magic before - if he had, he doubted he’d still be alive. And why was he alive? She’d had a hundred opportunities to eviscerate him in such a way, back when she was his prisoner and they were nothing to each other; why had she let him live?

The answer was what it always was; because she was Shepard. Because, as she’d told him years ago, _that was just what she did_. Because she was kind and recklessly brave and, all things considered, more than a little bit brilliant.

She was probably the perfect replacement for him.

Rylen cleared his throat, breaking Cullen from his thoughts. “And?” Rylen prompted. “There’s got to be something else. You were… vaguely threatening in your message.”

Cullen looked at him hard for a moment, unsure how Rylen would receive the news - but he had to start somewhere. “She’s blue,” he said simply, bracing himself for the reaction; Rylen merely arched an eyebrow, looking at Cullen as though he was making a joke he didn’t understand.

“As in… sad?”

“As in the colour.”

Rylen opened his mouth to reply and then, apparently unable to find any words, closed it again; Cullen sighed, indicating for Rylen to walk with him towards where Trevelyan’s companions would all soon be meeting. “She’s from a species who call themselves Asari. They exist beyond the Amaranthine Ocean.” He paused, utterly flummoxed by how to further explain her; she was completely unique, and comparisons only served to arouse suspicion. “Truth be told, I have never seen anything like her before. But you should meet her; no doubt you’ll soon be fielding questions from our troops.”

“And you trust her?” he asked, his face clouded with concern.

“I do not know her,“ Cullen admitted. “But I trust Shepard, and Shepard trusts her.”

Rylen was silent for a moment as he absorbed the news, his eyes focused on the route ahead of them. “I stand behind you, whatever you say,” he said eventually. “But some of the other Templars aren’t going to be happy.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Cullen muttered. “But they’ll have to accept it.”

“Of course - but you’ll have to understand their concerns. You’re asking them to trust on blind faith a strange blue lass recommended by a mage.”

“Recommended by the Inquisitor and myself,” Cullen corrected.

“But on a mage’s word,” Rylen persisted, ignoring the sharp edge of Cullen’s voice. “And by the sounds of it I doubt either of them are Circle mages.”

“Shepard _was_ in a Circle. Briefly.” He groaned, massaging his temples in a vain effort to soothe the persistent throbbing of his head. “This is going to go terribly.”

“Probably,” Rylen agreed. “But at least nothing’s ever dull around here.”

They approached the meeting point on the outskirts of their camp, away from the main throng of soldiers and runners; Cullen could see from a distance Shepard was already there, accompanied by someone in a cloak who he assumed was Liara. He raised one hand to hail Shepard, who nodded back but didn’t smile, and it sat uneasily with Cullen; she’d always greeted him with a warm smile, even when she really shouldn’t have, and this deviation - combined with her distress the previous evening - only made him worry about her more.

Her panic attack really should have frightened him; seeing a mage on the edge, with magic sparking uncontrollably at their fingertips, would only have been met with one response in the Gallows. But he hadn’t felt anything close to fear. What he’d actually felt he didn’t understand, because it didn’t make any sense that - in the presence of a volatile mage - his fingers had itched not for his sword but to hold her.

“You’re right about one thing,” Rylen murmured as they approached the two women.

“What’s that?”

“She’s very - ‘uh, not unattractive’.” Cullen felt blood rush to his cheeks as his second-in-command quoted him with a smirk, unsure whether he was more annoyed or embarrassed by what felt like an accusation.

“That was _not_ — I was merely describing her,” Cullen protested. “It is an accurate description.” Rylen’s smirk widened, though he said nothing else to Cullen and instead turned to greet the women.

“Serah Shepard - good to see you again,” he nodded to Shepard. “And - serah Liara?” he asked hesitantly; with a gesture of encouragement from Shepard Liara pulled down her hood, revealing her face properly to the Knight-Captain. He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable as his eyes flitted from her face to her armour to the ridges along her scalp; eventually he let out a long exhale, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not fielding the questions on this, Commander. You can do it yourself.”

Liara’s expression turned hard as she began to speak to Shepard in some dialect Cullen couldn’t understand, but Shepard quickly cut over whatever her protest was. “He’s a Templar, and he’s not attacking you. I’d count this one as a win.”

“I thought the Inquisition sided with the mages, not the Templars,” Liara spoke in Common now, regarding Rylen with even more wariness than he had shown her.

“They did, but there’s a few of us here and there. Knight-Captain Rylen,” he said with a curt nod by means of introduction. “I can’t imagine you’ll have had good experiences with us in the past.”

“No, I have not,” she said with a pointed glare at Cullen.

“ _Liara_ —”

“It’s fine,” Cullen cut off Shepard’s warning with a raised hand. “Liara - I apologise for last night. I only misled you initially because I feared—”

“I’m not angry at you for lying to me,” she interrupted. “I’m angry at you for almost killing my best friend.”

“ _Liara_!” 

“Don’t _Liara_ me - you almost died!”

“I’m always almost dying!” Shepard countered, and Cullen wasn’t quite sure why she was defending him but he wasn’t about to question it. “It’s all water under the bridge. He stabbed me, I punched him in the face; we’re even.”

“You punched him in the face?” Liara repeated, a flicker of amusement crossing her features as Shepard nodded.

“You stabbed her?” Rylen asked, looking at Cullen with a puzzled expression as guilt itched at the base of his skull. “Maferath’s balls - I’m not even going to ask.”

“Good, because it’s a very long story. So, Knight-Captain - opinions?” Shepard asked, tilting her head towards Liara; Rylen let out another long sigh before shrugging his shoulders.

“If the Commander’s happy, so am I.” Shepard finally smiled at that, a relieved little thing that pulled weakly at the corners of her mouth. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll start to make arrangements for the deceased,” he addressed Cullen, saluting them all once more before leaving.

“He was more accepting that I anticipated,” Shepard noted.

“Rylen is a sensible man; he is not one to jump for the pitchforks and flaming torches. What is the Inquisitor’s plan for introducing Liara to the others?”

“We saw him earlier; he said he was going to brief them first.”

“Probably a wise decision,” he acknowledged, then paused for a moment as he figured out how to best phrase his next question. “How - uh - how are you feeling this morning?”

Shepard’s eyes flashed in warning for only a moment before she adopted a neutral expression with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “I’m fine. Why?”

She didn’t look fine; she looked as though she’d barely slept, with faint bruises under both eyes and her fair skin a shade more pallid than usual. It was a subtle difference, and one those less familiar with her might not have even noticed, but on the woman who’d only ever seemed invulnerable to him it was… disconcerting.

“Uh - no reason,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as Liara frowned at him. “And you, Liara?”

“Fine.”

Shepard sighed at her friend’s monosyllabic reply and shot Cullen an apologetic look, though of course he understood it; if the situation was reversed, and a mage had grievously injured one of his comrades, he’d be even less accommodating than the Asari. Unsure what he could say that wouldn’t earn him another frosty glare, the trio sank into an uncomfortable silence; soon enough the Inquisitor and the rest of his companions arrived, and once they’d assembled it was Trevelyan who introduced Liara to them all. He seemed to have done a reasonable job of preparing them; none of them were as distrusting as Sera and Cassandra, their greetings instead ranging from reserved pleasantries to unbridled curiosity. Sera and Cassandra still appeared wary, lingering at the back of the group as the others approached Liara, but at least they weren’t vocal in their dissent - for which Cullen and his aching head were grateful.

“Are there any questions?” the Inquisitor asked once introductions had been made; Bull’s hand shot into the air, and Trevelyan nodded at him.

“Yeah. So I get that you’re another species, but you’ve got the horn things and that kinda metallic skin. You’ve gotta have some Qunari in you.”

“I—no,” Liara replied, a little confused. “My father was also an Asari.” 

“Then would you _like_ some—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Shepard warned; Bull’s hand returned to the air nonetheless, and she glared at him. “What now?”

“What are the men like?”

The question elicited a groan from Shepard, but Liara answered regardless. “We have no men,” she explained. “Our species is monogendered, though our appearance is what most other races would consider feminine.”

“Then how do you—”

“Bull, I will _murder_ you,” Shepard hissed, her voice full of venom; the Qunari fell silent immediately, raising his hands in surrender. “ _Anyone_ else?” she practically begged, and this time a small hand hesitantly reached up. “Yes. Cole.”

“Hello. I’m Cole.”

“Hello, Cole,” Liara smiled at the spirit, then paused, waiting for a question that did not arrive. “Did… you have a question?”

“Oh. No. I just wanted to say hello. Solas has the questions. His head’s very busy.”

“Thank you, Cole, but I shall leave them for now,” Solas said. “I do not think this is the best time for detailed discussions on your people. But I would relish the opportunity to learn more about you once we return to Skyhold.”

Sera blew a loud and emphatic raspberry at Solas’s interest, which earned her a withering glare from both Solas and Shepard. “Vivvy! You say something - the one thing you’re good for is anti-demony shite.”

Lady Vivienne, who had been mostly silent up until that point, considered Liara for a moment longer before replying. “She does not appear typically demon in appearance to me, and I also have our former Knight-Captain’s reassurance on the matter,” she concluded. “I shall reserve my judgement for the time being; I will not judge her on her looks alone.” She turned to face Sera with a look so sharp it might have slain someone weaker. “And it is _Madame de Fer_.”

“ _Pbthhh_.”

Shepard made a noise that sounded distinctly like a growl at Sera’s repeated derision, one fist clenching at her side; Cullen took half a step forward, enough to block Shepard if she decided to make an example out of the elf. “Is that everything?” he asked, scanning the group for those who hadn’t yet spoken. “Varric? Blackwall?”

“Yeah, I have a question,” Varric piped up, looking towards Shepard. “When we first met in Kirkwall you told us you were looking for your friend. Was this her?”

“Yes.”

Varric’s brow quirked upwards, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. “And you really thought the Templars would take Blue here peacefully to the Gallows, instead of just killing her and leaving her body in a ditch?”

“I don’t know; Rutherford tricked me,” Shepard shrugged. 

“Nice job, Curly,” Varric grinned. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.”

“So you’re fine with her, Commander?” Blackwall asked before Cullen could protest the dwarf’s description of him as _pretty_ , and Shepard let out another growl of annoyance.

“Of course I’m fucking fine with her, I—”

“Ah, I meant Commander Cullen,” he interrupted, somewhat awkwardly; Cullen resisted smirking at Shepard’s affronted expression, and instead merely nodded. “Then I’ve got no issues either.”

“Fantastic,” Trevelyan clapped his hands together. “We’re all on board. Mostly. That wraps up business; Liara, Shepard, Dorian - pack your bags, I want to detour to the Emerald Graves—”

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra cut him off, taking a step forward as the rest of the group began to disperse. “It is not my place, but perhaps that is not the wisest choice of team,” she said with a voice striving for calm; she seemed to be going to a great effort to keep herself restrained, though there was a palpable agitation bubbling just beneath the surface.

“You’re right - it isn’t your place,” Shepard said, moving forward to square up to the Seeker.

“I do not wish to argue with you—”

“Then _back off_ ,” Shepard hissed, glaring up at Cassandra with her hands on her hips; keen on separating the women before they came to blows, Cullen placed himself between them, a firm hand on their shoulders to force them back from each other.

“Enough!” he shouted, and they both turned their glares on him instead; he dropped his hands immediately, with a silent prayer to the Maker that they wouldn’t take out their frustrations on him. “Cassandra has a point,” he proceeded in a gentler tone. “My reports on the Graves suggest large numbers of giants and Red Templars. A team with three mages may not be best suited.”

“Exactly,” Cassandra agreed, softening slightly. “The Inquisitor should consider taking a warrior; that is all I meant to say.”

“ _I’m_ a warrior!” Shepard protested, her voice an octave higher than usual, and Cullen winced as the sound shot a fresh pang of pain directly between his eyes.

“ _Andraste’s_ — Shepard, we are not trying to offend you,” he grit his teeth as he replied, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to soothe the ever-growing ache there. “The fact of the matter is that the Inquisitor needs someone whose abilities cannot be negated by Templars.”

“I’m perfectly capable of fighting without biotics.”

“But Liara and Dorian are not,” he said, ignoring the strange word she occasionally used to describe her magic and instead turning towards Trevelyan. “I agree with Cassandra, Inquisitor. You may wish to reconsider your team.”

“Fine,” the Inquisitor threw his hands up in the air, looking thoroughly fed up with the lot of them. “Dorian’s out. Cassandra - you’re in. I’m going back to my tent before you all kill each other.” He stormed off from them before they could say another word, and Cullen was half-tempted to follow in order to escape the rowing women. Despite Cullen’s suggestion, Cassandra being picked was not the ideal outcome for him; he’d now have to wait until she returned to Skyhold before broaching the subject of his replacement. 

“Is it just me, or does he seem more… decisive, since our victory last night?” Cassandra asked.

“He did well in the Fade,” Shepard agreed, looking thoughtfully after their leader. “Sorry for jumping down your throat, Cass,” she added begrudgingly, and Cassandra offered her a terse smile.

“It is fine.” She turned to Liara, seeming strangely hesitant for a moment before finding her resolve. “Liara, I… I hope we can come to know each other better during this trip.”

“Oh, I… thank you,” Liara replied, unable to conceal her surprise at Cassandra’s olive branch. “I hope that too.”

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief at the tentative step towards civility; he glanced towards Shepard, who offered him a thumbs-up by means of encouragement. Hopefully the Inquisitor was wrong, he though to himself; with a bit of luck, perhaps the trio wouldn’t kill each other after all.

\---

It took Cassandra three days to let her guard down around Liara, and another two to agree to share a tent with her. That was quicker than Shepard had expected. It helped that Trevelyan was so readily accepting of her; his sincere and constant questioning, though tedious to Shepard, seemed to reassure the Seeker, and soon enough she was chipping in with queries of her own. She still watched Liara closely in battle, always on alert for any signs of blood magic or other unseemly abilities, but she did it so discreetly that Shepard was the only one to notice. As for her and Liara’s friendship, it seemed to thaw a little further with every passing day, and by the time they reached the Graves they were even sharing jokes and stories with their new comrades of their old adventures. It wasn’t like it had been, but it was better.

And as for the bad dreams which still lingered in the wake of Adamant - Shepard persevered, as she always did. She’d faced far worse than the Fade in her time, and the sleepless nights she’d been left with would soon settle once more; distance from the Nightmare’s taunts and accusations would help her forge forward again, her new role and assignment pushing away the memories of what she’d once done. What would be harder would be making the others forget. Cole already knew what she was, and she didn’t care what Solas thought of her, but she _did_ care about Trevelyan’s opinion of her - and maybe it was her imagination but he seemed to have closed himself off from her since their return to reality, shrugging away her offers of help and spending much more time with Cassandra. And Cullen… well, she’d be quite content if she never needed to look him in the eye again, because she was quite sure he was going to be unbearable from now on.

She hadn’t cried in front of someone since before she’d joined the Alliance, and she hadn’t had a panic attack in front of someone since Akuze. She’d done both, in private, many a time, but who she turned into alone in her cabin was not Commander Shepard; the woman who sobbed, and failed, was not the woman the world needed her to be, and certainly not the one she wanted her colleagues to see. But now Cullen had seen her, at her weakest and most human, and somehow he’d _helped_ her, had given her the tools to come back to herself even as she’d spiralled out of control. He’d been… nice. But he’d looked at her differently afterwards, as if she were fragile and vulnerable, as if she were a _person_ rather than a name or a rank or an ideal.

It had been a long time since someone had just seen her as human, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

But sure enough, their time in the Dales quickly refocused her attention to more immediate issues; aiding Fairbanks and his refugees against the Freemen was straightforward, honest work, and it went a long way towards helping the nagging sense of unease which had settled in Shepard’s gut. Speaking with Trevelyan - clearing the air about what he’d heard in the Fade - would also be necessary if she hoped to feel comfortable around him again. It wasn’t until their penultimate evening in the region that she managed to get him on his own; after a particularly close shave with a Freemen rogue, Cassandra had taken it upon herself to improve Liara’s abilities in hand-to-hand combat, and as Liara parried with daggers against Cassandra’s punishing swings Shepard settled down next to the Inquisitor at the campfire.

“Five sovereigns says one of them loses an eye.”

Trevelyan let out a huff of laughter, closing his book and looking up at the sparring pair. “Cassandra really has no concept of going easy on someone, does she?” he commented as a particularly violent shield bash knocked Liara to the floor; Cassandra pulled her back to her feet with a frown, offering a few short words advice before readying her weapons once more.

“At least she’s helping. To be honest, I’m surprised she’s grown to trust her so quickly.”

“I don’t think it’s her Cassandra trusts,” he pointed out. “Although _I’m_ more surprised by how readily Cullen jumped to her defence.”

“Cullen knows I’m not possessed,” Shepard replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If I was possessed I never would have made it out of the Gallows. And neither would he.”

“Good point. At any rate, Liara does need the practice. Her magic - or whatever it is you do - is strong, but she’s too vulnerable up close.”

Shepard sighed, watching her friend as Cassandra reminded her once more to guard her flank. “She was always long-range back in the day. She’s damn good with biotics and pistols - er, handheld weapons, like a shrunk-down version of Bianca - but you just don’t have anything comparable. We’ve tried her with a bow and arrow, but she finds it too cumbersome.”

They sat in silence as they continued to watch the pair, Liara now switching to a sword and shield to see if it suited her any better. “I… might not bring her along much,” Trevelyan said after a moment, awkwardly avoiding Shepard’s eye. “It’s nothing personal, but - the team’s too uneven like this. I do need a proper mage.”

She understood completely where he was coming from; anything Liara could do, so could she, with the added advantage of being a vanguard. But neither of them were mages, and they’d felt the absence of Dorian’s fire magic on their trip. Still, it was disappointing; for a while it had almost felt like old times again. “I get it,” she muttered. “It’s the right call.”

“I still want you,” Trevelyan continued, looking earnestly at her now. “If—if you wouldn’t rather be at Skyhold with Liara.”

“That’s surprising, seeing as you’ve been avoiding me.”

He averted his eyes again, now staring at the campfire in front of them. “I was… embarrassed,” he admitted. “About the things the Nightmare said to me.”

That wasn’t what she’d been expecting; he’d done so well in the Fade, had found strength and fought on even whilst the rest of them faltered. He, out of all of them, had the very least to be embarrassed about. “It was harsh to all of us. You were the only one who seemed to handle it well.”

“That was only because…” he sighed, shaking his head before starting again. “It was right about me - about not being cut out for this. And I already know that, so it telling me didn’t matter. But I hate the fact that now you know it too.”

“ _Marcus_ ,” Shepard began, with an exasperated tone and a wry smile at the fact they were more alike than she’d realised. “No-one is cut out for this. No-one wakes up one day and is just able to lead a world organisation. Do you think I could run complex missions fresh out of the academy? Do you think Cassandra was born able to kill dragons? Of course not, but at some point we got asked to do something completely out of our comfort zone and just had to go with it - because if we didn’t, no other bastard would’ve.”

“But that’s the point,” he persisted. “You, Cassandra, Cullen - you’re already experienced in this sort of thing. I’m just… no-one.” He sighed, absentmindedly tugging at blades of grass. “It shouldn’t be me, and I’ve made my peace with that. I’m happy to rely on my advisers to do what I can’t.”

“The Hero of Ferelden was a no-one,” Shepard pointed out. “A random noble who spent her first twenty years in a castle just like you, and now look at her; the Queen of her country and vanquisher of Archdemons. And Hawke was even less than that when she started out.”

“Hawke ended up triggering the Mage-Templar war.”

“Okay, bad example, but still… she’s pretty cool.” Trevelyan let out a single, hoarse chuckle, his mouth twisting up at the corners ever so slightly. “But leaning on those with more experience isn’t a bad thing. Neither Hawke nor the Queen did it alone.”

“Sometimes I swear you’re a bard.” He was quiet for a moment, then smiled to himself, nodding his head once with resolve. “But you’re right. Just because I’m not… chosen, doesn’t mean we can’t win this thing.”

“Exactly.”

A loud _crash_ interrupted their otherwise heartfelt moment, and they both flinched, looking across to see Liara sprawled on the ground once more. “For the record, I _do_ think Cassandra was born able to kill dragons,” Trevelyan muttered, and Shepard grinned.

“So do I.”

The returned to silence, watching Liara and Cassandra for a while longer until the Asari grew tired and Cassandra turned instead to demonstrating different blocks. “How about you?” Trevelyan asked eventually. “How you were in the Fade - it’s not like you. You don’t have to tell me, but…”

“You want to know what the Nightmare was talking about,” she completed as his sentence trailed off. He didn’t reply, instead leaving her to decide whether to answer or not, and though he’d just been incredibly candid with her she still felt something holding her back. “I did some terrible things in my war,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? I just left a man in the Fade.”

“One man does not make you a destroyer of worlds.” She groaned, dragging one hand through her hair as she resolved herself to telling him the truth; after all, the name left little to the imagination. “Our enemy - the Reapers - were… all they wanted to do was kill us. They didn’t want to conquer us or enslave us - they just wanted us dead. I found out about their plan for invasion; if they’d succeeded, they would have annihilated each and every single one of us. So I stopped them the only way I could - by blowing up their path, and taking out an entire colony in the process.”

“How many people died?” he asked softly, with sorrow but no accusation in his voice.

“Three hundred thousand.” His mouth dropped open at that; it was a lot even by her standards, but to him - whose entire country probably had fewer people - it was an almost unimaginable number. “It delayed arrival by six months, gave us more time to prepare. We should have done more, but most people didn’t believe me.”

“It only slowed them down? It didn’t stop them?” 

“No. Hence worlds, plural.” He didn’t need to know about the Geth; that would be her own personal shame, locked in her heart right next to her crew. This revelation alone would be enough to alienate him. “So - still want me on the team?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice light, though she was in no way carrying it off; Trevelyan let out a slow exhale as he rubbed his forehead.

“ _Maker_ , Shepard. Three hundred thousand people?”

“It’s not like I wanted to do it,” she said, bristling at the horror in his voice. “I had no choice.”

“But was there not _anything_ else you could have done?”

“No.”

He shook his head, because he didn’t get it; of course he didn’t get it. Leaving one man to die in the Fade was the hardest thing he’d had to do; his was a different kind of war, with everything else in the Inquisition being about salvation rather than sacrifice. And maybe there would be a day where he’d have to send a squadron to the slaughter, but it wouldn’t be three hundred thousand souls. It wouldn’t be children.

It had been a mistake telling him. 

“I still want you on the team,” he eventually said. “Whatever you had to do, you obviously regret it,” he told her, and she’d let him believe that if he wanted to; but guilt was not the same as regret, and in truth she’d do it again the exact same way. “But I don’t mind if you want to stay back with Liara.”

“Of course I want to spent time with Liara, but she’ll understand that I’m needed in the field,” Shepard replied, carefully sidestepping what he’d actually offered, because the choice of adventure or Liara was not one she wanted to make. “And I know it’s a lot to ask, but - when you write your report, could you leave out what the Nightmare said to me? I don’t want Rutherford to know that I’m…” she trailed off, not wanting to say the phrase _war criminal_ out loud, because she knew Trevelyan wouldn’t dispute it.

“If that’s what you want,” he nodded. “But he might understand better than me.”

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” she muttered. No, she couldn’t let Cullen know; he’d throw her lot in with Anders, cast her away with the blood mages and criminals, and nevermore would he give her missions to plan, or discuss reports with her, or put up with her playful teasing. Or play chess with her in the grass.

There was a shriek from across their campsite, and Shepard’s head whipped up to locate the noise, her hands immediately reaching for her daggers. She grinned when she found the source; Cassandra lying prone on the ground and Liara, exhausted but grinning, standing over the Seeker, smiling more widely than Shepard had seen in years. Shepard laughed, pushing up off the ground and heading over to the pair.

“Alright, you’ve taken down Cass,” she called out to Liara, smirking at Cassandra’s part-mortified, part-proud expression as she scrambled back to her feet. “Now let’s see you knock out Trevelyan.”


	30. Chapter 30

Things went rapidly and spectacularly downhill after Adamant.

Cullen’s body _screamed_ in its relentless demand for the one thing he refused to give. His gut gnawed at him for relief, unwilling to stomach anything other than the blue liquid it craved; the trembling of his fingers gave way to a violent judder that made merely dressing each morning a monumental task; the thrum in his skull became an inescapable pounding under the harsh glare of the Orlesian sun. The night provided no respite; there the demons of Adamant found him again, sharper and more vicious than they had been in years, and each morning he awoke with more exhaustion than the last. 

And still, they marched. 

In years to come, Cullen would wonder how he ever made it back to Skyhold from Adamant. Every step of that endless walk was a fight against himself as he quietly hoped each pace would be his last; that he would just fall, and his body would be consumed by the scorching sands and desert winds, an ignoble end for the Commander who would soon be replaced and forgotten. But somehow, against all reason, he returned. And though the perfect solution to his problems lay in his desk drawer he still refused to relent; he could face his withdrawal and his nightmares, even if they killed him, but he could not risk the Inquisition in the process. Not any more than he already had.

The Inquisitor returned some days after their soldiers, and Cullen worked in solitude until then, battling back against his failing body and mind through pure stubbornness and spite. When the sound of the Herald’s return reached his tower he breathed a sigh of relief; abandoning the report he had been struggling to read, he quickly hurried down the battlements to greet them at the gate, sure that any delay would only weaken his resolve.

He approached Cassandra as she was handing the reigns of her horse to a stablehand. “We need to talk,” he told her without preamble; her face hardened as she took in his appearance, clearly seeing in an instant what was wrong.

“It’s all _work work work_ with you,” Shepard tutted, fussing over her horse even as another stablehand tried to lead the creature away. “It can wait. We’re getting a drink in the Rest - you can come if you don’t bring your reports.”

He ignored her piercingly chipper voice, angling his body away from her and focusing on Cassandra; she sighed, but offered him a weak smile with a firm hand on his arm. “Let us talk.”

“Are you serious? We’re only back five—” Shepard’s sentence halted as he made the mistake of looking at her; their eyes locked for only a second, but all the humour that had been in hers instantly vanished. “Are you alright?”

To his great shame, for the briefest of moments he hated her, because she looked _fine_. Whatever struggle she’d faced after their siege she’d clearly dealt with and boxed away, and now she was as she ever was; confident and carefree and the perfect reminder of everything he was not. He grit his teeth as he turned his back to her, looking pointedly at Cassandra instead; she merely nodded, gesturing for him to follow her and cutting Shepard off with a hard look as she began to protest.

They made their way to Cassandra’s usual training area, and from there she led him to the smith off the main courtyard. Thankfully the room was empty, and he pushed the door firmly shut behind them with more force than was necessary.

“Tell me what has happened.”

“I cannot do it anymore,” he muttered, eyes trained on the floor, unwilling to witness the disappointment in her eyes just yet. “The withdrawals…” he began, then stopped, unable to bear detailing the full extent of his weakness. “I can no longer fulfil my duties as I vowed.”

“Cullen…” Cassandra began, and for some reason her unusually gentle tone irked him; his head snapped up to face her, and when he spoke it was with more anger than intended.

“I do not want your sympathy,” he snarled. “I just need you to find someone else.”

The harsh edge of his words succeeded in shaking the softness from her; her expression hardened, pragmatism replacing the pity. “And where do you propose I find someone to command one of the largest armies in Thedas? Who this side of Orlais would be capable of filling your role at such short notice?”

“You _know_ who.” 

“Shepard is not an option,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She has neither the time nor the inclination to command your troops.”

“No inclination?” he repeated derisively. “She would relish the opportunity to wrest control from me.”

“Shepard cares about your wellbeing, and she would not wish to see you like this,” Cassandra told him, shooting him a glare as he scoffed in response. He was being unfair, and they both knew it, but striking out right now was far easier than agreeing. “She is also required in the field, and lacks the rapport you have built up with your soldiers. So I refuse to find a replacement for you, and I reject the one you have offered.”

“Wha— you cannot simply _refuse_!” he spluttered.

“I just did.” It was clear she thought that the end of the discussion; her arms were folded across her chest, and her words were spoken with such finality that he was almost scared to contradict her. Almost. 

“It is _too much_ ,” he persisted, beginning to pace now, their little room suddenly far too small and stifling. “I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t— I can’t do this!”

“You can manage,” she told him, adopting a kinder tone once more. “You _have_ managed - remarkably well in fact - but you are pushing yourself too hard. Twelve-hour marches back from the Western Approach? What were you thinking?”

“I see our Spymaster has been reporting on me,” he glowered.

“She is worried for you, Cullen. You can do this, but not if you insist on running yourself into the ground. Take a few days to yourself; catch up on sleep—”

“I _can’t_ sleep,” he repeated.

“Have you seen the healers? Perhaps they can supply you with a sleeping draught.”

“And what if Skyhold is attacked in the night?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra groaned, throwing her hands up in the air. “I cannot speak with you if you insist on being so unreasonable.” She took a deep breath, looking thoroughly frustrated with him by this point. “You asked for my opinion and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word,” he growled. “It’s relentless! I can’t—”

“You give yourself too little credit.”

“If I’m unable to fulfil what vows I kept then nothing good has come of this! Would you rather save face than admit—” 

He stopped abruptly as the door creaked open and the Inquisitor, obviously curious about what had required Cassandra’s immediate attention, stepped into the room, and it was all too much; he wasn’t ready to look Trevelyan in the eye and let him know he’d failed him. “We will speak of this later,” he muttered to Cassandra, sweeping from the room without so much as a glance in the Inquisitor’s direction as Cassandra loudly complained about his stubbornness.

The Inquisitor would know, Cullen thought as he stormed back to his tower; the Inquisitor would be able to make the call Cassandra could not. And then it would finally be over, and as they saved the world he would fade from memory.

\---

Shepard resolved to see Cullen later that evening, after he failed to appear for dinner. She’d planned on avoiding him for a day or two longer, still feeling awkward about how he’d found her after their battle, but he’d seemed so tense on their return that it had driven all thought of Adamant from her mind. During their meal Cassandra had been uncharacteristically evasive about the stormcloud which seemed to engulf their Commander, merely informing Shepard he was ‘out of sorts’ and waving her away as she spoke with the Inquisitor in hushed tones - and it was worrying, because she could see anxiety in Cassandra’s eyes even as she lied to her.

She knew he was in his tower - there were nowhere else he could be - but there was no response when she knocked on his door. “Cullen?” she asked tentatively, pushing the door open a fraction and peering into his office; he was sat at his desk, hunched over his papers with his head in his hands. “Cullen,” she repeated when he didn’t answer; he flinched as though she’d screamed, head reflexively snapping up but immediately looking down again once he’d clocked her.

“I’m busy,” he bit out, resting his head on one hand again, and she got the distinct impression he was trying to shield his face from her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, approaching him at his desk despite the way it made him stiffen. “Come on, you don’t always have to—”

“Get _out_ ,” he snapped, finally looking up at her, and she almost wished he hadn’t; he looked _pained_ , hair frayed and skin clammy and eyes bloodshot, with a wild edge in his expression akin to a cornered animal. “I don’t want you here.”

There was something so _wrong_ about seeing Cullen like this; he’d always been stoic, unyielding, a consummate professional who rarely let anything other than mild annoyance into his countenance. But now he was unravelling, a desperation in his eyes and a barely-concealed tremor in his hands even as he clenched them into fists, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how to make things better, because she didn’t even know what was wrong.

“Cullen…”

“I said get out,” he repeated, abruptly standing from his chair and stepping round his desk. He seemed to immediately regret his lurching movement; his eyes clamped shut as he wobbled on the spot, fingers tightening on the edge of his desk and knuckles going white from the effort. “I don’t need—don’t want— _agh_ ,” he cut off with a groan as he staggered forward, legs giving way; he collapsed into Shepard, who braced herself just in time not to fall under his weight.

Shepard had never been much of a hugger, and Cullen was particularly difficult to hug; he was too tall and his armour too bulky for her to get a proper hold on him, and the latches of his chestplate pressed uncomfortably into her neck and chest. But in that moment she didn’t know what else to do; struck with an overwhelming urge to protect him she circled her arms around his shaking, suddenly-fragile form, one hand smoothing over his hair in the way her mother had done for her when she was a girl. 

“Forgive me,” he said, the cracked words muffled against her shoulder.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she murmured, squeezing her arms more tightly around him. 

As it turned out, hugging Cullen was a lot less awkward than it sounded in her head. She didn’t mind the way his forehead lay on her shoulder, or how his breath tickled the side of her neck; she didn’t even mind that his hands rested in the small of her back, or that she was close enough to smell the faint scent of oakmoss that clung to his mantle. In fact, she didn’t mind being close to him at all. 

They stayed like that for a long moment until slowly, so that he didn’t fall again, she loosened her grip on him, leaning back and supporting him by only his elbows as she inspected his face; that panicked look was gone, but in its place was a tired and resigned expression she wasn’t sure was any better. “I’ll go get a healer,” she offered, but he was already shaking his head before she’d finished her sentence.

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not.” He sighed as he slumped against the side of his desk, looking utterly defeated. “You look exhausted. At least let me help you to bed.”

“No; I need to work—”

“Cullen, you need to rest,” she told him, more firmly now, and he shook his head again but didn’t contradict her. “Where are your quarters?” He nodded in the direction of the ladder in the corner of his office. “Convenient. Alright,” she said, moving forward to hoist him onto her shoulder, but he shrank away from her before she’d even had a chance to take hold of him.

“Whilst I appreciate the thought, if you carry me upstairs I may die from the indignity.”

She tutted, folding her arms across her chest. “Fine; I wouldn’t want to damage your fragile sense of masculinity. Up you go.” 

He nodded - more to himself than to her - before crossing the room with slow and deliberate steps, looking completely washed out by the time he’d reached his ladder. Still, the stubborn fool persisted; he hauled himself onto the first rung despite the way his arms shook from the effort, and he took a deep breath before attempting a second step.

His slip was woefully easy to anticipate, and Shepard was already by his side as he fell, her arm around his waist in an instant to stop him from crumpling to the floor. “This may be more difficult than I thought,” he grumbled, a hint of blush now colouring his otherwise-waxen complexion.

“No shit. Let me just Lift you.”

“With your magic?” he asked dubiously. “With all due respect, you aren’t the most… delicate in your art. I’d rather not go through the roof.”

“You won’t go through the roof!” she exclaimed, though she quickly adopted a quieter register when her tone caused Cullen to wince. “Trust me.”

It was a testament to how truly drained he was that he relented with only a little shrug, and so she focused all her attention on the space around him. To be fair to him, he was right; Lifting someone gently was not a skill she regularly utilised, and it took two attempts to create just the right field to raise him from the ground. It was enough to help, but not completely remove the burden; with near-weightlessness he was able to navigate the ladder himself, and once he’d reached the floor above them she too quickly scaled his ladder.

Cullen was massaging his temples with one hand when she reached the top rung, the other arm braced against the wall to keep himself standing, and so she placed an arm around his waist again to guide him towards his bed. She’d seen Cullen’s quarters before, in Kirkwall, and he hadn’t discovered a talent for interior decorating in the interim; ‘minimalist’ was kind but ‘sparse’ was more accurate, with no furniture other than a wooden chest, a few rugs and an uncomfortable-looking bed. There was also a gaping hole in the ceiling, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate her mentioning that now.

“I must be a sorry state,” Cullen muttered as he sat down heavily on his bed.

“Why do you say that?”

He looked up at her, a twinkle of humour in his tired eyes. “Because you’re yet to joke about getting me into bed.”

She grinned at him, oddly proud of him for managing to be witty in his current state. “And if you’re making a joke, you can’t be as sick as I thought. Perhaps this is all a ruse to lure me into your quarters and seduce me.”

“That’s more like it,” he smiled weakly, though it flickered as she crouched down in front of him and began to fiddle with the buckles of his chestplate. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“Oh, calm down,” she tutted. “I’m just taking off the plates. I’ll leave your innocence intact.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he grumbled, but he let her get on with it, closing his eyes and swaying slightly where he sat as she divested him of his metal layer. She pulled off his boots too, and when she was done she ushered him into his bed, bringing his covers up to his chin as he rolled onto his side.

“There,” she said. “Do you want any food?”

“No,” he mumbled into his pillow, avoiding her eyes.

“Okay.” She hesitated, knowing she was now intruding but reluctant to leave him. “Do you want to talk? About… whatever this is about?”

“No.”

She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but she was disappointed; whatever was wrong with him seemed to go beyond mere illness, and putting him to bed wasn’t really helping anything. “Okay. Give me a shout if you need anything; I’ll get your paperwork sorted.”

“No!” he protested, bolting upright in bed. “No. Please - just go. You’ve done more than enough.”

She was going to argue, but the desperation which had reemerged was enough to deter her; instead she placed one hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Get better. Alright?” He nodded, pulling out of her grip to roll onto his side facing away from her, and she hesitated for just a moment longer before heading back down his ladder.

She really did intend to leave then; she was halfway out the door when she glanced over her shoulder at Cullen’s parchment-strewn desk, and though she knew her interfering would annoy him she just couldn’t help herself. Figuring he’d probably appreciate it eventually, she let the door slam closed before quietly padding back to his desk, picking up the nearest piece of paper and setting to work. 

And so over the next hour Shepard diligently made her way through Cullen’s reports, drafting responses to his field agents and double-checking his most recent missives for any mistakes. It wasn’t surprising that his work had built up in the wake of Adamant, and even less surprising that he’d taken the entire burden of it on himself; it was as if delegation was some form of weakness, even when the sheer volume of work was too much for any one person to accomplish alone. He’d made a decent stab of it, regardless; he’d likely foregone sleep on more than one occasion since returning to Skyhold, as evidenced by his terse and sometimes disjointed instructions, and the sheer stubbornness of the man was as impressive as it was frustrating.

She was just starting with his duty roster when she heard a noise from upstairs; frowning, she tilted her head towards the sound, wondering whether he was getting out of bed and, if so, whether she ought to make a run for it. After a moment of silence she heard it again, a muffled utterance she couldn’t make out through the floorboards, and clearly she hadn’t been as quiet as she’d thought; she abandoned her documents to see what he wanted, hoping that he wasn’t going to yell at her for the deception.

“Cullen?” she asked as she poked her head up into his room. “Did you need something?” 

“ _Leave me_.”

“Look, I just thought—”

“No, _please_!”

His wounded cry came just as she hoisted herself to standing, and she froze as she took in Cullen’s still-sleeping form. His blanket was now discarded on the floor, and he’d also extricated himself from his shirt at some point; his broad chest and strong arms were… an interesting discovery, but one which was largely irrelevant at this point in time. More pressing was the restlessness of his limbs, and the contortion of his face into a look of such distress that it physically pained her to see him, and what the _fuck_ was she supposed to do? If he was having a nightmare, surely the kindest thing to do was wake him up, but she was sure he’d be both mortified and furious to have been found by her in such a state - though the alternative was leaving him to suffer, and that seemed even worse.

He cried out again, and it made her decision for her; her feet moved forward almost of their own volition until she was kneeling next to his bed. 

“Cullen? Cullen!” 

She placed her hands on his shoulders to shake him awake, but found him drenched in sweat; tiny beads of water prickled his brow also, and when she placed a hand to his forehead she found him burning up. He was sick, and she had no clue what was wrong with him; in the good old days she would’ve dragged his sorry ass straight to Chakwas, but Skyhold didn’t have a doctor or a medbay, and she was pretty sure the healers’ leeches and ground-up plants were less than useless right now.

Dorian. Dorian would be able to help. With a resolute nod she stood once more - then promptly jumped out of her skin when she turned to find someone else already in the room.

“Son of a— _Cole_!”

The boy merely blinked at her as he stepped forward from the shadows. “I wasn’t watching you. I came to help, too,” he told her, holding out a compress and bowl containing some sort of liquid; she eyed his offering dubiously, unconvinced by whatever concoction he’d come up with. “Elfroot for the pain and spindleweed for the fever,” he said, correctly reading her reticence. “Then he just needs time.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you.” He didn’t say anything else, holding his equipment out further in front of him, and his intentions suddenly clicked. “Wait, you want— me?” He nodded. “No. No way. He’ll never forgive me; you do it.”

“But demons scare him,” he said, softly side-stepping to block the room’s exit. “They hurt him, and that was all he could see. You help him better than I could.”

She knew, _knew_ , she shouldn’t pry any further; Cullen’s struggles were his own, and it was unfair to mine the spirit for information. But Dagna had mentioned demons too, and in that moment her curiosity got the better of her, wanting - needing - to understand him, as both her Commander friend and her Knight-Captain adversary. “What do you mean? What demons?” 

“Clawing hands, whispering words, all alone in his unbroken circle. _Leave me, let it end_ , but still they come for him even now. We’re not them, but he couldn’t tell the difference.”

She glanced back over at him, vulnerable in a way she never could have imagined, and in that second something changed; the last vestige of the Knight-Captain slipped away and all that remained was Cullen, bruised and imperfect and yet, in some bizarre twist of fate, the person she’d come to care for most in Thedas. Which meant staying to help him through the night - even if he killed her for it.

“Goddamnit, give it here,” she grumbled, accepting the equipment from the beaming spirit and tentatively perching on the bed next to Cullen, whose mumblings had now turned quiet and incoherent. She submerged her compress then wrung it of excess liquid before gingerly placing it to his forehead; he whimpered as the cool fabric touched his burning skin but then seemed to soften, the tension in his brow and the lines around his eyes fading ever so slightly.

“Is this all I do? Just sit here and—” She looked up, but Cole was already gone, disappeared into the encroaching evening as he was want to do; with a sigh she bent her head to speak to Cullen’s unconscious form. “After I’ve dealt with you, I have to teach that kid how to end a conversation properly.”

He didn’t reply, of course; he was still beyond her, embroiled in a battle she could only wish to take on for him. But it was his fight, and all she could do was stay by him as the sun descended in the sky and his quarters shifted hue from amber to silver, humming half-remembered songs from her childhood until sleep closed in on her too.

\---

Cullen awoke to a steely grey sky and a light breeze rattling through the rafters above him. He felt better, marginally; his head was numb and foggy but no longer painful, and the residual tremor of his muscles seemed to settle more with each second he lay there doing nothing. He groaned, rubbing at his eyes as though that would clear the feeling of fuzziness behind them, though he paused as his fingers struck soft material along his brow; opening his eyes, he plucked at the cloth to find a damp compress which smelled faintly of elfroot. Shepard’s doing, he suspected; she must have gone for the healer after putting him to bed, and he was just considering whether to be grateful for or embarrassed by her interference when he rolled over to find the woman in question asleep next to him.

He jolted backwards, clutching his blankets to bare chest as his muddled mind scrambled to make sense of the situation, failing to register her armour or how she slept upright and cross-legged with her back against the headboard; instead he was far too preoccupied by the fact that _Shepard was in his bed_ and he had no idea how she’d gotten there. “ _Shepard_?!”

Her eyes shot open at her name, launching herself off the bed and making a grab for the nearest weapon to her - his sword, propped up underneath his window - spinning on the spot as she scoured the room for enemies. Her eyes landed on him, and she breathed a sigh of relief, allowing her sword-hand to go slack as she placed the other over her chest.

“Damnit, Rutherford; that’s no way to wake a lady.”

“What are you _doing_ here?!” he demanded as he pushed himself to sitting; she looked distinctly awkward for a moment, her eyes flitting towards his ladder as though calculating whether it was possible for her to simply run away from the conversation. 

“This is all just a dream?” she offered, holding her hands up in surrender as Cullen glared at her. “Fine, I just - and I’m sorry - but yesterday after I put you to bed I stayed to do your work, and then I heard you…” she trailed off as Cullen averted his gaze, not needing her to vocalise the humiliating cries that accompanied his nightmares. “And I was going to leave, but then Cole turned up and guilted me into looking after you.” She paused, and when he looked up at her again she seemed troubled, chewing at her bottom lip as though worried about what to say next. “Not guilted. I wanted to stay.”

“Why?”

She shrugged as she put his sword back on the ground. “I was worried about you. You had a fever.”

“Then you should have got the healer,” he muttered, casting around for his shirt and trying his best to pull it on without revealing too much of his naked torso to her.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, looking away from him as he struggled with his clothing and only turning back when he’d stopped fidgeting. “Are you alright?”

It briefly occurred to him that he ought to be angry with her; he should be shouting at her for her intrusion, demanding that she leave his quarters, forcefully evicting her if need be. And maybe he was simply too tired to fight, but there was no anger in him; only gratitude that someone cared enough to stay with him at his worst, even if he was utterly undeserving of it.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, raking one hand through his curls.

“I… I do understand,” she said as she took a tentative step closer to him. “I was a soldier too. I know all too well how what happens on the battlefield can haunt your dreams.”

“The things that haunt my sleep happened off the battlefield.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” With a sigh she sat down on the edge of his bed, and though she left a good distance between them he felt his cheeks go warm at the familiarity he was so unaccustomed to; he pushed his blankets off of him and sat up straighter in an effort to seem less informal. “I’m afraid that if I talk about what happened, then I’ll start thinking about it, and if I start thinking about it I won’t be able to stop, and then I’ll spend the rest of my life this guilt-ridden, self-loathing mess. So I suppress it. When it’s quiet and things start to bubble I recite the entire galaxy or undertake a dangerous mission… or channel all my efforts into annoying a Templar,” she said, smiling weakly at him. “Anything so I don’t have to _think_.”

Whatever embarrassment Cullen might have felt faded with that admission, and her compassion suddenly made sense - because she _knew_ , better than Trevelyan with his orders and Cassandra with her reassurance, and because the Nightmare wouldn’t have affected her so much if it hadn’t had ample material to work with. But her way of handling it sounded hardly better than his. “Shepard, that isn’t healthy,” he said softly.

“Forgive me for not taking health tips from _you_ ,” she retorted, then winced at her knee-jerk response. “I’m sorry; that wasn’t nice. If you want, I’ll trade you. You tell me your bad dream and I’ll tell you mine.”

He considered her offer for a long moment, hesitant to reveal himself even now - but the fact that she trusted him with her own struggles pushed him to decision. “You go first.”

“I have several, but… more often than not I’m running through a forest towards a young boy. Every time I get close to him, he runs off. There are all these whispers around me that get louder and louder, and then I realise they’re… well, they belong to the friends I’ll never hear again outside my dreams. When I finally reach the boy, he’s surrounded by flames, and I’m too late to save him. Sometimes I burn with him.”

Her voice was quiet and full of lament, her eyes fixed on the floor as she spoke, and the melancholy which seemed to envelop her was almost too much to bear. “Who is the boy?”

She shrugged, looking at his face once more. “I don’t know his name. I only met him briefly the last time I went to war; I tried to bring him with me, but he ran away scared. Later I saw him board a ship as we evacuated the city. Then I saw our enemy – the Reapers – blow that ship to pieces.” 

“It’s not your fault that you couldn’t save him,” he told her, because it was all he could think to say, a meaningless platitude that paled in comparison to the support she’d offered him - but still she smiled at him and his weak reassurance.

“I know. But knowing it doesn’t help.” A shudder passed over her, and she shook her head as though to force the memory from her mind. She didn’t press him for his story now she was finished hers, but he felt compelled to tell her even so - not because he owed it but because he wanted to. 

“I served in Ferelden before I moved to Kirkwall,” he said eventually. “During the Blight. The Circle there was taken over by demons and blood mages; they overwhelmed us, slaughtered my colleagues – my friends. And I… I was kept alive for their amusement.” He’d told the Inquisitor as much the day before; his story had spilt from him in a violent flurry as Trevelyan had stood wide-eyed and unsure what to do, and though he’d sympathised he hadn’t really helped. But with Shepard the words were easier to find, gentler to say, her hand on his enough to ground him in reality and keep his voice level. “They kept me in this _cage_ , tortured me, tried to break my mind. The Hero of Ferelden found me before they could kill me, but the man – boy – I was before, is long gone.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, trying to hold back the images of that awful prison. “That is what I dream of; that I’m back there, with those demons clawing at me still.” 

“Cullen, I…” Shepard began, but cut herself off with a shake of her head. “I don’t know what to say; that’s unimaginably awful. I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his hand once before letting go. “The dreams _will_ get better. As time goes on they’ll fade; mine have.”

“For a while they were manageable,” he acknowledged. “But since giving up lyrium…”

“You gave up lyrium?”

He nodded. “You saw the person I was in Kirkwall. I cannot bear to be tied to that life any longer, but the withdrawals…” he trailed off with a sigh, scrubbing one hand across his still-clammy forehead. “Yesterday was a particularly bad day in a month of bad days. I am sorry you had to see me in that state.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” She considered him silently for a long moment, and when she spoke next it was with a soft and sincere voice. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way since Kirkwall - and I know how hard it is to stop letting your life be dictated by hatred and fear.” She hesitated before continuing, as though unsure whether to voice the words that sat on her tongue. “I assume Leliana told you about my family? About them being…”

“Not applicable?” Cullen completed, and she nodded.

“Yeah. That’s one way of saying ‘brutally murdered’, at any rate.” She looked impossibly sad in that moment, fiddling with the end of her braid as her eyes glazed over, and that ridiculous urge to hold her he’d felt at Adamant bubbled up again inside him. “I was raised on a small farming colony on the edge of the Traverse - stupid area to settle, but that’s humans for you. When I was sixteen, batarian raiders attacked us. The first aliens I ever met and I watched them gun down my mom in our kitchen. The whole colony was wiped out; some were carried off as slaves, the rest were murdered. I was left for dead, bleeding out in our old barn.”

He wasn’t quite sure what she meant by _alien_ ; another species evidently, like Liara or the Qunari. But that didn’t matter; what mattered was the tragedy he never would have expected to find beneath her armour of smiles and bravado, and the fact they were far more alike than he’d ever realised.

“Shepard…”

She raised a hand to silence him. “It’s fine. I don’t remember much about actually being injured - I lost a lot of blood - but the next thing I knew I was in some Alliance med bay. I signed on and swore that I would become a soldier and destroy the people who destroyed my family. All of my abilities, my skill in combat – all of it was built on hatred, and my mentors let it happen, encouraged it; we were at war with the batarians, my rage was a good thing. I lived with all of that anger, that _poison_ , for years; it nearly destroyed me. So I understand Kirkwall. And I understand wanting to be better than you were.”

“How did you get past it?” he asked, leaning in towards her. “I assume you no longer feel the same way about these batarians.”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted. “I got assigned to a new CO - Anderson. He was a good man. A great man, actually,” she corrected, her brow furrowing as her eyes began to glisten, though her voice remained level and she didn’t permit any tears to form. “He saw my anger for what it was and made me get help, and little by little it got easier. And then one day I looked up at the sky, and I saw the stars, more clearly than perhaps I’d ever seen them before, and I just… it made me realise that the universe is too beautiful to be spoiled by hatred. From then on I stopped fighting because I hated the batarians and started fighting because I loved the galaxy.”

“You were lucky to have someone to support you,” he told her, not needing to add how jealous he was to have never had the same in the Templars.

“Yeah. Meredith didn’t seem like the touchy-feely type.”

“That is an understatement,” he muttered darkly. “Had I—”

He stopped abruptly as his door creaked open below them, and for a brief but intense second he panicked about being discovered with a mage in his quarters. But then he remembered he was in the Inquisition, and the worst he would experience here was mockery; still he indicated to Shepard to keep quiet as he called out to the person in his office.

“Who is it?” 

“Cassandra.”

He suppressed a groan, grateful for her sincere persistence but frustrated by her timing. “I’m busy.”

“You are not busy; you are in bed,” she retorted, and he distinctly heard her cross the room and begin to ascend his ladder; he scrambled out of bed, dizzy for a moment as he stood upright, but found he was able to support his weight far better than the previous evening.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, pulling on his boots and ignoring the way Shepard’s shoulders shook in silent laughter as he descended his ladder; Cassandra quickly jumped out of his way as he did so to prevent them from colliding.

“How are you feeling?” she asked when he’d found his footing on level ground.

“I am fine,” he said, a little too quickly, and she arched an eyebrow at him. “Just… resting. Like you told me to.”

She seemed surprised at that, but not disbelieving. “Good,” she nodded in encouragement. “The Inquisitor told me you two spoke. So there will be no more talk of replacements?”

“Not currently.”

“And the lyrium?” she persisted.

“I have my orders, Cassandra,” he told her firmly, and she rolled her eyes but said nothing. “Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all,” she sighed. “I simply wished to make sure you are well. I will let you get your rest.”

He ushered her from his office, and the moment the door was shut Shepard slid down his ladder, pushing his paperwork to one side on his desk before perching on it. “There’s no need to be so embarrassed of me,” she told him, idly fiddling with a chess piece misplaced amongst the documents.

“I am not _embarrassed_ ,” he bristled. “I just do not wish to be the subject of idle gossip.”

“Cass isn’t a gossip.”

“But you are,” he smirked, and she poked her tongue out as she lobbed the chess piece at him; his reflexes still slowed from his recent battles, the piece struck his chest before he could block it and clattered to the floor. 

“You must be better if you’re getting mouthy. I suppose my work here is done.”

“I am,” he nodded. “And I’m glad you are better. After Adamant.” The humour in her face flickered and died, somehow still ashamed of her moment of vulnerability even after what she’d seen of him, and he took a step closer towards her. “After you fell into the Fade, your phylactery went black. I thought…” He trailed off, because despite the weeks between then and now he still couldn’t shake that gut-wrenching sense of dread at the thought of a world without her. 

“It’ll take more than a rip in reality to finish me off,” she told him, and he smiled slightly.

“Evidently. You know, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way you killed those Venatori.”

“I _am_ very impressive.”

“That’s not— you could have killed me when we met. You had plenty of opportunities to do so, and I was… not a particularly sympathetic captor. It would have made your life vastly easier. I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He shrugged, and she shook her head with a little laugh. “Because, you idiot, I liked you.”

He blinked, utterly baffled by her answer; he’d expected her reasoning to be based in justice and morality, but the response she’d given was almost incomprehensible. “ _Why_?”

“Well, I might have killed you when you first caught me, but I was too worn out to fight you properly. After that… you kind of grew on me. I thought you were funny.” She grinned at him. “Obviously I was terribly mistaken.”

“But…” he began, scrabbling to make sense of the acceptance that just seemed so misplaced. “But I was cruel to you.”

“Nah,” she dismissed. “If you were cruel you’d be dead. You were just a dick, which is why I only fantasised about killing you.” Her face softened, a small smile pulling at her lips as though she was actually _fond_ of the time she’d spent as his captive. “And to be honest, you impressed me. There are few people stubborn enough to get one-over on me.”

“If I recall correctly, there were several one-overs.”

“Don’t push it, Rutherford.”

A hoarse bark of laughter escaped his lips, and he moved to sit on the edge of his desk beside her. “I _am_ sorry,” he told her. “For how I acted in Kirkwall - for what I thought of your kind.” He took a steadying breath before saying what came next. “I know much has passed between us, but I— I truly hope we can call each other friends now.”

It felt like far too much to ask, and rejection seemed a much more likely response, but still he _hoped_ \- and his spirits soared as she beamed at him. 

“Alright. In the interest of friendship…” She stuck her hand out towards him. “Mollie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lieutenant-Commander Mollie Shepard. In case you need to give my eulogy, or something.”

It took him a moment longer than it should have to process her words - the revelation so intimate for something so mundane - and he let out a disbelieving laugh as he shook her hand. “Why would you not just _tell_ people that?”

“Because it doesn’t fit!” she exclaimed. “The name ‘Mollie’ never struck fear into anyone! It’s a name for little girls with pigtails!” He arched an eyebrow, looking pointedly at her hairstyle. “This is a _braid_ ,” she clarified.

“I like Mollie,” he told her, only partially teasing.

“Shut up.”

“What? I think it’s nice.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she repeated more forcefully, with a light shove of his shoulder. “If you tell any of the others, I will murder you in your sleep.”

“I promise not to say a word,” he said, though he was unable to resist adding: “ _Mollie_.”

“ _Ugh_. This was a terrible mistake.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, all they needed to say already voiced but content to remain in each other’s presence regardless; it was Shepard who spoke first, as she always did, rejecting the quiet for reasons which had never been clear before that morning. “You should take the day off; I can hold the fort whilst you rest.”

“I’m feeling better today. Truly,” he added at her sceptical expression, but it only caused her face to cloud with concern.

“When you told Cassandra you had your orders…”

His eyes fell to the lyrium box which lay half-hidden underneath his piles of papers; he plucked it from its hiding place, frowning at the Templar insignia etched onto its surface. “The Inquisitor has forbidden me from taking it,” he clarified. “I will not disappoint him.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You’ve come so far, and that’s all down to your own hard work. I know you will beat this thing – and when you do, I won’t let you attribute your success to following orders.”

“I…” he began to protest, feeling altogether unworthy of her words; but the way she looked at him, face earnest and caring, made his words die in his throat. “Thank you,” he muttered instead. “For everything.”

“Come on,” she said, tapping him lightly on the elbow as she jumped off the desk and pulled the box from his grasp.

“Where are you going?” he asked, though he was already following her.

“Not far.”

They made their way onto the ramparts, the crisp morning breeze pleasant in the way it bit at Cullen’s skin; he finally felt as though he could breathe again, and he shut his eyes as he inhaled deeply. A few feet from his office Shepard stopped and leaned over the parapet, inspecting the sharp mountain face on the other side of Skyhold’s walls.

“This’ll do.”

“For what?” he asked, and she simply held out his box to him.

“Make it your call.”

His fingers brushed over hers as he took the box from her, opening it and inspecting the equipment inside he’d grown to despise. He’d been so proud of it when Knight-Commander Greagoir had presented it to him; had meticulously cleaned and stored each little piece and polished the lid until it gleamed. Now to look down on it – and the lyrium that still sung to him – made his stomach churn. 

_His call._

He snapped the lid shut, face contorting into a snarl as he lifted the box and hurled it over the parapet with all his might. They watched silently as it struck the mountain beneath them, clattering as it continued its descent down the rock face, and only once the noise ceased did he feel a smile working its way onto his lips. He turned to Shepard, half-expecting her to say something profound, but instead her lips twisted up into a smirk as she looked back at him.

“That was pathetic. I could’ve thrown it twice as far.”

He chuckled, a sound which rumbled deep within his chest, and it was the most human he’d felt in a month. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d always made him feel like that, had filled him with fire and sparked him to life when before her he’d merely existed, and all at once the confusing clash of emotions he’d felt since Adamant fell into perfect alignment. The awe that had filled him watching her fight; the terror that had coursed through his veins when she’d fallen. The devastation of her phylactery turning black and cold. How he’d ached to hold her when she’d been close to breaking, and how when she’d held him he’d wanted to never let go.

With her, he was alive.

That was… not something he knew what to do with.

“Never change, Shepard.”

She smiled that irrepressible, beautiful smile of hers, and he knew in that instant he was lost to her, because despite the residual ache in his limbs and head he couldn’t help but smile too. And he’d worry later about the miserable futility of being enamoured with Mollie Shepard, but for now he was content to merely stand in her presence.

They remained stood there as the sun cracked through the clouds and the sleepy haze of dawn lifted from Skyhold, and when she finally left his side he returned to his office, with a new ache in his heart that not even lyrium could fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been looking forward to this chapter for such a long time and I’m so glad it’s finally here. Shepard has a name! Cullen has feelings! I cram twenty different tropes into 8000 words! I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :D
> 
> Aaand now the pining starts. WELCOME TO ANGST CITY, RUTHERFORD.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  The lovely [machatnoir](http://machatnoir.tumblr.com/) gave me a wonderful surprise by [sketching our Commanders](https://chatnoir-art.tumblr.com/post/170086203744/cullen-rutherford-and-mollie-shepard-from-the-two) after last update and I've only just stopped flailing over it, so I had to share it here. If you like your Cullen frequently curly-haired and half-naked (let's be real, who doesn't) go check out [her art](https://chatnoir-art.tumblr.com/)!

Skyhold was nowhere near as bad as Liara had expected; indeed, she could see why Shepard liked it so much. Looking beyond the ethereal beauty of the place, its residents were some of the nicest she’d known since arriving in Thedas; whilst many were taken aback on introduction, most accepted her with barely a word of hesitation. The Lady Ambassador, in particular, was gracious and welcoming, eager to learn whether she had any special requirements or customs for them to accommodate; the arcanist Dagna seemed thrilled to meet her, asking rapid-fire questions with barely a pause for Liara to answer. She and Dorian passed many an enjoyable hour in the library together, and when Trevelyan wasn’t busy he’d always make time to check up on her and not once did Shepard say _I told you so_ , which in itself was a miracle.

The vastness of Skyhold also gave her and Shepard the breathing room they’d sorely lacked the past few years. As outlaws they’d lived in each other’s pockets, unable to put space between them even if they wanted to, and though Shepard would always be her dearest friend there was certainly such as thing as too much of her. In Skyhold however Shepard already had a routine, and Liara quickly developed her own, filling her days with reading and researching before reuniting with Shepard at a time which suited them both. It was almost like being back on the Normandy - if the Normandy had been filled with pre-space flight humans and rustic cuisine.

“You understand the purpose of this game is to _not_ lose all your pieces?” Liara asked as Shepard lost their third consecutive chess match one afternoon, amusement mixing with exasperation at Shepard’s dejected expression. “By the Goddess; with tactics like these, I have no idea how you ever defeated the Reapers.”

“You’re meant to be teaching me, not mocking me,” Shepard pouted, flicking her last remaining pawn across the board in annoyance.

“I’m _trying_ to teach you, but - and I mean this with the greatest of respect - I think you might be a lost cause. Perhaps you should find another hobby?”

“But I want to beat Cullen.”

The extent of Shepard’s friendship with her former captor came as something of a surprise to Liara; when Cullen had referred to her as such, it hadn’t occurred to Liara that they actually enjoyed spending time together. But she disappeared into his office most evenings, regularly accompanied by Dorian, and whilst Shepard had always had a soft spot for misfits with problematic backgrounds - this was the woman who’d recruited a Geth, after all - that didn’t mean Liara would be so quick to accept him.

“You could always just cheat.”

“You say that like you think I haven’t already tried.” Shepard sighed. “He always just beats me even worse. He takes a twisted pleasure in it, actually.”

“Then maybe get him so drunk that he can’t see the board?”

She considered that for a moment, a mischievous grin creeping onto her face. “I would _love_ to see Cullen drunk.”

“Shepard, I was joking,” Liara said, but she was smiling now too.

“I wasn’t.”

Liara shook her head with a little laugh as Shepard began to reset the board, though her chuckles faded as she noticed Solas observing them from across the garden. Liara hadn’t yet had much to do with the elf; he kept to himself, and Shepard seemed to avoid him like the plague, apparently offended over some slight at Adamant. He began to approach once she’d spotted him, nodding his head in greeting.

“Commander. Doctor. I wondered if you are both free to talk.”

Shepard looked up from the board, her usually soft expression morphing into one much colder. “Why don’t you come find me in the Fade?”

Seeing Shepard truly angry was a rarity, and seeing her _cold_ was something else altogether; Liara had watched Krogan falter when met with that quietly seething glare, but Solas merely held his head higher. “I see you are still upset from Adamant. I apologise for my words in the Fade, but we were all pushed to the edge that day.”

“No, not all of us; you fucking loved it there.” He acquiesced with an incline of his head, but said nothing else. “What do you want?”

“To talk,” he repeated simply.

“What about?” Liara asked.

“About everything. Thessia, Earth. The Reapers.”

Liara’s mouth dropped open, and for a wild second she wanted to hug Solas, because _finally_ there was someone who might be able to understand her. “You know where we’re from? You know our home?”

“Don’t get excited,” Shepard grumbled. “He only knows because he spies on us when we sleep.”

“I have seen much more than you think, Shepard,” he said, the lilt of his voice hardening at Shepard’s disdain. “There are events from your world so strong that they leave their own faint impressions on the Fade, like charcoal rubbings of old mosaics. I have experienced them as barely more than a whisper.”

“Such as?” Liara asked eagerly.

“I have looked up as rain and ruin pour down on an unsuspecting people. I have walked the silent streets of a glowing city abandoned to time, and seen it reclaimed by the soil and once-lost wildlife. I have watched on as an old soldier ended both a war and a species with one final shot, supported to the last by her friend.”

“Those are all events which have generated a devastating amount of energy,” Shepard, apparently too curious to maintain her annoyed visage, cut in now. “Hiroshima, Chernobyl, and… well, us.”

Solas nodded. “Each moment is clearer than the last; each impact makes the lines between there and here a little less distinct.”

“So there’s a way back - through the Fade,” Liara concluded. “We were right, then; it must be a bubble universe backing up onto ours, with the Fade in between—”

“You misunderstand me,” Solas interrupted. “I tell you this for one reason only: I do not think you should attempt to return.”

Liara’s soaring spirits immediately plummeted at his warning, but it was Shepard who spoke for her, looking up at Solas with a frown etched deeply into her forehead. “Why not?”

“For the reasons I have just told you; such movements weaken the barrier between this world and yours, and—”

“So?” Shepard asked. “So there’s a bit more of a gap between the two; who cares? I get you don’t want to be flooded with tourists or guns, but we can keep this place on a need-to-know basis - Liara, you can do your Shadow Broker thing to keep it quiet - and we could just… coexist. We’ll make sure you stay safe.”

“I am not concerned about _tourists_ ,” Solas bristled; he appeared to be losing patience with them, but with a sharp exhale of air from his lungs he regained some of his composure. “The events which have been set in motion here threaten time itself, and I do not wish to see more loss of life than is necessary.”

“You’re worried about _there_ , not here,” Liara surmised, and Solas nodded. “I understand your concerns. But we’re well-equipped to fight anything this world might throw at us.”

“To play devil’s advocate, three centuries’ worth of horror movies would suggest we’re not that great at coping with demons.” Liara shot Shepard a glare across the table, and she raised her hands in surrender. “But she’s right; we do have guns.”

“There are worse things in this world than demons. How do you think your kind would handle the temptation of blood magic, or lyrium? Your people have feasted on power for an age; do you really think they’ll resist when offered more?” His words had grown heated, impassioned, almost angry, but once more he forced himself to take a steadying breath before speaking again. “I have given my advice. If you wish to ignore it, you will only have yourselves to blame for what comes next.”

He turned away from them, sweeping back towards the castle as a sense of bitter disappointment settled in Liara’s stomach, but there was one thing she still wanted - _needed_ \- to know. “Solas!” she called after him; he halted, looking back over his shoulder towards her. “Can you see what it’s like now?”

“It is peaceful,” he said simply. “It should be left that way.”

Liara turned back to the chessboard as he left them, staring miserably at the pieces and having lost all inclination to play. “Well. That was fucking bleak,” Shepard muttered, flicking each upright piece to clatter onto their sides in frustration.

“I see now why you don’t talk to him,” Liara grumbled. “That was… rather uninspiring.”

“Well, what does he know? ‘Fade expert’ my ass. If you want to get back, you can get back.”

Liara flinched at Shepard’s slip, though she apparently hadn’t noticed it, still toppling the pieces on the board in front of them. “ _We_ , Shepard,” Liara said softly, with a hint of begging in her voice she couldn’t quite conceal.

“That’s what I said.”

It wasn’t, but she couldn’t face arguing with her, because the only thing worse than that denial would be Shepard admitting the truth. But it would be different when they were no longer talking in abstract, and getting home became a tangible possibility; until then she just needed to keep Shepard focused, and hope she didn’t become even further attached to the place.

“Why don’t we go to the Rest for a drink?” Shepard offered, evidently having lost interest in chess also, though the thought of that crowded tavern - full of staring soldiers and poorly-concealed whispers - was even less appealing to Liara.

“I don’t know…”

“No-one’ll give you any hassle, and if they do Bull will throw them through a window.” Still she hesitated, and so Shepard persisted. “Please. It’ll be fun, I promise; we’ll get Dorian to come. And we can try and get Cullen drunk.”

“You might like him a lot less when he goes on a drunken anti-mage rant.”

Shepard tutted, and though she kept her voice light there was an unmistakable rebuke in her words. “You’re worse than Ash was when I first brought Garrus and Wrex onto the SR-1. And when I brought you in too, for that matter.”

“That’s different; Wrex and Garrus never stabbed you.”

“Wrex put a shotgun in my face once,” Shepard pointed out, and Liara had to admit she had her there. “Please give him a chance,” she said, turning suddenly serious. “He’s a good person - at least he’s trying to be. Just cut him some slack.”

“Fine,” Liara sighed. “But if he hurts you again, I reserve the right to kill him.”

\---

Gradually, the tide of Cullen’s symptoms turned once more, and within two weeks he resumed his full duties as Commander. During that time, the burdens he could not carry alone were shared quietly by his friends. Cassandra assisted with his early-morning drills, throwing herself into the role with a ferocity that terrified a number of his newer recruits; Shepard intercepted all communications which came his way, streamlining his reports into more manageable dossiers. Trevelyan kept meetings short and to the point, making decisions far more quickly than he had done in his early days. Cullen wasn’t sure whether word had gotten out about his struggles, or if those around him merely sensed something was wrong, but others in the Inner Circle also reached out with unassuming gestures of support he’d never expected; Josephine sent biscuits to his office each afternoon and The Iron Bull sent a wonderful beverage called _cocoa_ each evening, and Cole left messages on his desk that were as soothing as they were cryptic. When he refused to be dragged down to the Herald’s Rest by Varric in favour of working late, Dorian would instead turn up with a bottle of wine and an offer of chess, and Shepard would join not long after, spectacularly losing each match until she grew frustrated then insisting he retire to bed. Not one of them once mentioned why they were there, and Cullen didn’t want them to; he was simply happy to be in the company of people who cared.

Especially Shepard. 

Once acknowledged, his affection for Shepard became hard to ignore; she was just so _warm_ , so honestly and unashamedly kindhearted, her every action filled with compassion and vibrancy. She was still loud and obstinate, still cracked completely inappropriate jokes at completely inopportune times, but somehow the traits which had once irked him now only served to endear her to him further. He’d always known she was beautiful - he’d stubbornly ignored that fact ever since they’d first met - but now that realisation hit him again so hard he could barely look at her some days, because the urge to kiss her when she laughed was almost insuppressible. There were also… less than pure thoughts, which crept on insidiously with the wine shared during their evening chess games, and which flared intolerably whenever she bent over his desk to refill his glass. And he knew he needed to limit contact, to distance himself until his feelings eventually passed, but he didn’t _want_ to; the trade-off of becoming even more hopelessly bewitched by her was worth it, if it meant spending a moment longer in her company.

Because it _was_ hopeless. The way she smiled at him was no different to the way she smiled at the others; she laughed more with Dorian, exchanged stories more animatedly with Bull, sat closer to Cassandra at the tavern. Knowing her name was an exercise in trust rather than intimacy; he’d tentatively called her Mollie once, in private, and it had earned him a glare so venomous it thoroughly discouraged him from ever saying it again. He was not arrogant enough to imagine she’d harboured feelings for him since Kirkwall, nor naïve enough to hope she might develop them now. Her friendship was enough, and he had no right to yearn for anything more.

Still, that didn’t stop him from relenting far too easily when, in lieu of a chess match, Shepard and Dorian insisted on a drink in the Herald’s Rest one evening instead, and with a put-upon sigh he pushed his paperwork to one side and trudged dutifully after his friends. The tavern seemed louder than usual, in no small part due to the Chargers’ return from Therinfall Redoubt, but his headaches had ebbed over the past few days and thankfully did not return with the merriment. Shepard waved through the crowd, and he clocked Liara sat alone at a table near Bull’s Chargers; his feet faltered, sure that she would object to his presence at her table, but he felt a hand on his back to keep him moving.

“You promised us a drink, Commander,” Dorian murmured.

He glanced over at Dorian, who was trying in vain to suppress a smirk, and Cullen narrowed his eyes at him. “You two have set me up,” he hissed.

“Yes, we have,” Shepard agreed. “I want you two to get on! I’m sure you’ll be friends once you’ve talked a bit.”

“But—”

“Just use that brusque Fereldan charm of yours,” Dorian told him. “I’m sure that will win her round.”

He highly doubted he had _any_ way of winning the Asari around, judging by the way the easy smile she offered Shepard tightened as her eyes fell on him, and he vaguely wondered whether Shepard would manhandle him into a seat if he resisted. Not wanting to find out in front of his recruits, he sat down opposite Liara, offering her a sheepish smile which she did not return.

“Hello, Liara,” Cullen began, rubbing the back of his neck as Liara regarded him with a haughty sort of disdain. “I - er - I was not expecting you to be here. Not— not that I mind, I just… it is good to see you.”

She considered him for an agonising moment, as though toying with the idea of putting an end to him right then and there, before seemingly deciding that he was not worth the trouble. “Bull and his Chargers have pledged to forcibly evict anyone who hassles me.”

“Did he now?” Dorian asked. “That was gallant of him.”

“Don’t get so jealous, Pavus,” Shepard smirked. “I’m sure he still only has eyes for you.”

Dorian’s head snapped to face Shepard, eyes flashing in warning as he spoke in his best attempt at a nonchalant tone. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so? Then why—”

“Shepard and I will go get the first round,” he cut her off, grabbing her upper arm and dragging her from her seat towards the bar; Cullen frowned over at the pair as Dorian whispered hurriedly and Shepard tried in vain to adopt a serious expression.

“What do you suppose that’s about?”

“Dorian and The Iron Bull are engaged in what is possibly the least discreet affair in history.”

Cullen blinked, unsure what he’d been expecting but definitely not expecting _that_ ; he considered Dorian a friend, but not once had he mentioned a relationship with the Qunari. “They are?”

Liara shrugged. “I’m surprised you don’t hear them from your tower. Of course, it doesn’t stop Bull from flirting relentlessly with Shepard. Or me, for that matter.”

“I see,” was all he said, eyes drifting back to Shepard as they had a habit of doing these days. He watched her for a moment as she stood at the bar, a small smile creeping onto his lips as she spoke animatedly with Cabot, before abruptly remembering where he was and turning his attention back to Liara. “Uh - did you enjoy your time in the Emerald Graves?” he floundered for something to say, hoping that she’d accept the change of topic without resistance. “I hear it is quite beautiful.”

“Don’t do that,” she murmured, glancing over at Shepard as she spoke; Cullen’s blood simultaneously ran cold and rushed straight to his cheeks, and for an awful moment he was _sure_ Liara was going to kill him.

“Do what?” he asked, struggling to keep his composure as dread clenched at his gut.

“Pretend to be my friend.”

He stopped himself from breathing a sigh of relief just in time, because that he could cope with; that wouldn’t get him thrown from Skyhold’s battlements head-first. “I understand your reticence towards me,” he offered. “If I were in your position, I would be wary too. But Shepard wishes for us to get along, and I would like to know you better also.”

“I know she does, so from here on in I’ll be civil for her sake - but don’t think that means I trust you, _Knight-Captain_.” With another glance over at the still-occupied Shepard, she leaned towards him, speaking in a quiet but deadly tone. “You might have managed to make Shepard to forget everything you’ve done, but I have not, and I want to be very clear on one thing - if you _ever_ do anything to hurt her again, I will destroy you.”

He had no doubt she meant the threat in her words; she looked furious, blue eyes glinting with rage as she stared him down, but it only served to draw forth anger from his own chest. “I would _never_ wish to hurt Shepard,” he muttered, struggling to keep his voice level. “Even in Kirkwall, I did not want—”

“But you did. You almost killed the best woman I know, and I will never forgive that.”

He flinched at her words, and despite how much he hated them he knew he couldn’t fight them, because they were _true_. It was a truth he found himself dwelling on more frequently and with ever-growing melancholy; with that poorly-considered, cowardly action he’d both grievously wounded - more than just physically - the person he cared most about in the world, and destroyed any chance of her caring about him in the same way.

“I cannot begin to express how much I regret what happened in Kirkwall. If I had— if Shepard…” he trailed off as the sight of her, bleeding and paralysed, flashed vividly at the forefront of his mind, and he clenched a fist as he tried to force that image away. “I am sorry. I can only hope she knows how sorry.”

Liara shook her head, still unconvinced by his apology. “I find it hard to believe you’d be this remorseful if you still thought she was a ‘mage’.”

Cullen frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Liara did a double-take, her stern expression suddenly shifting to one which was both amused and disbelieving. “By the Goddess; you’ve _still_ not figured it out? She’s not a mage - and neither am I. We’re biotics.”

“I know you prefer to use that word, but semantics aside it is still magic.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Shepard’s abilities come from mutated nerve endings and an implant in her brain. It has nothing to do with the Fade; we don’t even _have_ the Fade.”

What she was saying made precisely no sense, because of _course_ Shepard was a mage; he’d seen her magic with his very eyes, had felt the surge of her powers prickle his skin like static electricity. For Andraste’s sake; the woman _glowed blue_. And it didn’t matter - it had long stopped mattering to him - but it was a fact, and he had no idea why Liara would say otherwise.

“If this is some joke you two are playing on me, I am not stupid. As a Templar I could negate her abilities.”

“Damping of mass effect fields,” Liara dismissed. “And why would I joke about this?”

Indeed, there was no humour in her face, and his mind traced back over her words of _nerve endings_ and _implants_ with a burgeoning wave of nausea spreading out from his gut. She wasn’t a mage. Shepard, who he’d treated with contempt - who he’d bound, and tricked, and stabbed - was not a mage. Who he’d _known_ , deep down, presented no risk of blood magic or possession, but who he’d still subjected to the cage of the Gallows out of a misplaced sense of duty. And though he regretted each one of those actions, a weak part of him still tried to justify bringing her to the Circle, because how could he have realised back then just how _good_ she was?

But he should have realised - because she’d told him, and he hadn’t listened.

_Andraste’s fucking shit._

“Everything alright here?” Shepard’s voice came as such a surprise he almost jumped out of his seat; he looked up at her as she placed three flagons on the table then sat down beside him. “You look like you’ve seen Meredith’s lyrium ghost.”

“You aren’t a mage?!”

Shepard rolled her eyes so hard they almost went up into her skull. “It’s a miracle! Rutherford has grown ears! Finally; indisputable proof of the Maker’s existence.”

“But—wha—” he spluttered, briefly rendered speechless by her aloof response to his discovery. “Why did you not tell me the true nature of your abilities before now?!”

Shepard blinked, shaking her head in incredulity. “ _Really_?! Do you _really_ want to go there?”

Deciding he did _not_ want to go there, he turned instead to Dorian, narrowing his eyes in accusation. “Did _you_ know about this?”

“It’s fairly obvious, Commander.”

“It certainly is not,” Cullen snapped, but Dorian merely laughed. “How… _how_?!”

“I told you how,” Liara rolled her eyes now. “Mutated nerve endings and a biotic implant.” 

“What do you mean; what sort of implant?”

“A little metal one right here,” Shepard said, tapping the base of her skull. “You can probably still see the scar,” she told him, lifting her braid and prodding at her scalp, and the very notion of someone _slicing open Shepard’s head_ was enough to make him gag.

“I don’t want to see— are you truly telling me someone cut you open and inserted metal in your brain?!” Cullen asked, aghast at the brutality of it, and Shepard nodded. “That’s barbaric!”

“I know!” Shepard exclaimed as she dropped her braid. “It’s so much more civilised to shove a demon in you instead!”

He ignored her sarcastic and inaccurate reference to the Harrowing, because he desperately wanted to avoid thinking about what might have happened if they’d put her through it. “Who else knows?” he asked instead.

“A few people,” Shepard shrugged, taking a sip from her ale. “I told Trevelyan because I thought he should know. Solas and Cole figured it out before I even met them. Oh, and I told Dagna too.”

“Bull also knows,” Dorian said, then added on Shepard’s arched eyebrow; “he wanted tips on how to beat you in a spar. I explained I couldn’t offer assistance because you aren’t a mage.”

With a long and emphatic groan Cullen put his head in his hands, miserably wondering if the Maker would take pity on him and allow him to turn back time. Because how differently could things have gone if he’d never been so _Knight-Captain_ ; if, on their first meeting, he’d been sympathetic and kind to a lost woman instead of being so quick to condemn her. If he’d helped her, offered her companionship, treated her as she deserved; maybe they’d still be here but sat a little closer, and maybe he’d still have a chance with her - or at the very least, maybe she wouldn’t be patronisingly patting him on the back and failing to stifle laughter.

“There, there. Reflecting on what an incompetent Templar you were?”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he muttered, pulling his hands down his cheeks and looking to her again. “I feel awful.”

She cocked her head to one side, and as she removed her hand from his back he ached for her to continue the contact. “Why?”

“Because… _because_!” he said ineloquently, gesturing wildly with his hands to try and express what his words could not.

“Because I’m not a mage?” she completed. “Because you wouldn’t feel awful if I were a mage?”

“How rude,” Dorian noted, though he winked at him as he said it.

“Wha— _no_ , that’s not—” he began, stumbling over his words as the terrible thought of her in the Harrowing chamber fought its way to the forefront of his mind. “Maker, Shepard; what would have happened if we _had_ Harrowed you?”

“An interesting question,” Dorian mused. “Demons can possess those without magic, but would they have found you in the Fade without a connection on your side? If they had, I suppose you would have had no chance against—”

“Dorian, I didn’t really want to know the answer,” Cullen snapped, though he immediately felt guilty on seeing his offended expression. “Taking you to the Gallows, at least, I thought I could justify to myself,” he murmured as he turned back to Shepard, barely able to meet her eyes. “But you were never a danger.”

“No, I never was,” she smiled wryly. “But you knew that already, so you shouldn’t feel any worse about it now.” Cullen, not knowing what else to say, said nothing, and she sighed. “Does it really make a difference?”

He considered her for a long moment before deciding she was right; despite the unique mix of humiliation and despondency he was currently experiencing, the discovery didn’t change anything. There was no relief that her abilities were not founded in magic; his affection was no greater for now knowing the truth. She could still destroy him with a flick of the wrist, and he still trusted her implicitly not to.

“Well… no, I suppose not.”

“Then stop whining. I was the one who got stabbed.”

He groaned again, taking a long drag from his ale as the excruciating futility of his current predicament stabbed at his chest once more. “I’ve changed my mind,” Liara said. “Spending time with Cullen _is_ fun.”

Shepard let out one chuckle of laughter before biting her lip and shooting Cullen a sympathetic glance, but before he could try and claw back some of his dignity Dorian’s eyes lit up as the door to the tavern swung open. 

“Look out, Shepard - your man’s on his way over.”

Cullen’s insides lurched at that innocuous sentence, head swivelling around to inspect the new patrons and his heart hammering as his eyes fell on Trevelyan. _Of course_. Of _course_ Shepard’s interests lay with their noble, chivalrous, idealistic leader; even without the power that made him a great man he was still a good one, and certainly a better one than him. And no doubt the Inquisitor would feel the same way about her; how could he not?

“Pavus, you are absolutely hilarious.”

“Thank you; I think so too.”

“You - uh - you and the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, his voice too high and unnatural to be anything close to aloof, but Dorian merely tutted. 

“Of course not, you dolt; I’m talking about the dashing Ser Fairbanks. Have you not met him yet?” The anxiety inside Cullen settled ever so slightly as he noticed for the first time the man accompanying the Inquisitor; the refugee leader he’d so far only read about, taller and darker than Trevelyan and irritatingly handsome to boot. “Remind me; what was that colourful turn of phrase you used? Something about being randy for self-sacrificing heroes with strong accents?”

Cullen, who had been trying to take an inconspicuous sip of his ale, choked on the amber liquid at those words, coughing to clear his airways as Dorian shot him a quizzical look. “Your attempts to embarrass me are pitiful,” Shepard retorted, not even paying attention to Cullen as he struggled for air. “And for the record, the word I used was _thirsty_.”

“Well, now is the chance to quench yourself. Inquisitor!” Dorian called across the room.

“Dorian, don’t—”

It was Liara who’d begun to protest, but the men were already at their table before she could finish; Dorian smiled warmly at them as Cullen took another long drink from his flagon.

“Ser Fairbanks; it is good to see you again,” Dorian began. “Your spar with our Seeker Cassandra was quite some spectacle to behold; wouldn’t you agree, Shepard?”

“Eh. I could take both of them.”

“Well then - I would be honoured to fight you in the ring, my Lady,” Fairbanks replied with that strong accent Shepard had been so gushing about, and Cullen’s hand flexed around his flagon. _Orlesian. Ugh._

“I’d recommend against that - unless you want to break a limb,” Trevelyan added good-naturedly, seemingly unaware of the man’s flirtation, and Cullen felt a wave of gratitude towards their leader. “Before I forget - Lady Josephine wishes to see you two tomorrow morning. Something about Halamshiral preparations.”

“Just me and Cullen?” Shepard asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Why not Dorian?”

“She said something very diplomatic that amounted to you two needing all the help you can get.” He grinned malevolently. “I think first on the list is dance lessons.”

The goodwill Cullen had briefly felt for Trevelyan shrivelled up and died; he opened his mouth to protest, but Shepard got there first.

“I don’t need them. I know how to dance.”

Much to Cullen’s surprise, Liara actually laughed at that, the corner of her eyes crinkling in amusement in a way he’d not seen before. “What is so funny?” he asked.

“Shepard categorically does _not_ know how to dance.”

“I am sure that is not true,” Fairbanks said. “I am sure you are quite graceful, my Lady.”

“Her title is _Commander_.”

He said it without thinking, unbearably irked by the handsome man and his smooth words; Shepard and Liara ignored him as they began to debate Shepard’s dancing abilities, but Dorian’s head snapped to face him, his eyes widening and mouth falling slightly open as though Cullen had just let slip some juicy secret. Which, he supposed, he just had.

 _Shepard?_ Dorian mouthed.

 _Please_ , Cullen mouthed back, desperation radiating through that one unspoken syllable; Dorian nodded, turning his attention to the men once more. 

“Why don’t I buy you two gentlemen a drink? The ale here tastes like piss, but the wine isn’t too dreadful.” His plea had only been for Dorian not to out him, but he felt immensely grateful as Dorian whisked the two men away, making a mental reminder to requisition him a not-too-terrible bottle of wine when he next had the chance.

“I’m not actually interested,” Shepard said, almost too quietly to be heard above the merriment of the tavern; Cullen frowned, wondering why she deemed it important to mention this to him, but Liara replied before he could.

“Good, because you know—”

“Yes, I know,” she said firmly, fixing her flagon with a glare; Liara sighed, standing with a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll go help Dorian with the next round.”

“What was she talking about?” Cullen asked as the Asari approached the bar. “Know what?”

“That we’re trying to get home, and adding a hot but bland folk hero to the mix probably won’t help things.” Shepard sighed, fiddling with the handle of her flagon. “It’s not really about him, or anyone; she’s just worried. She already thinks I don’t want to go back.”

It was none of his business, but he just couldn’t help the question that came to his lips. “Do you?”

She looked up at him with a peculiar expression on her face, as though she’d never been asked what she wanted before, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear her answer. “What I want is largely irrelevant,” she said slowly. “I think we’re stuck here, and we might as well make the most of it.” She sighed again. “It’s different for Liara; the blueness and the lifespan make things difficult. Plus, she has a home there. I completely get why she’s desperate to go back. But she can’t seem to comprehend why I’m ambivalent.”

“The lifespan?” Cullen repeated.

“Asari can live for over a thousand years. Liara’s still a baby at 112.”

Cullen let out a low whistle. “ _Maker’s breath_. She certainly looks good for her age.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll have to give you the same talk I gave Bull; it involves colourful threats towards your more sensitive organs.”

Cullen, predictably, blushed up to his ears at that, and he couldn’t work out whether he found her cackle of laughter irritating or delightful. “I hate that we’re friends now,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as she continued to grin at him.

“So do I; my credibility’s gone right down.” Her grin softened into a genuine smile that sent a thrill through his chest, and he hastily drained the remnants of his flagon to distract himself from her. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Much better,” he nodded. “Thank you. For all your help, and for… forcing me to be sociable.”

“Then let me do more for you,” she said, leaning further towards him so that he was acutely aware of their proximity. “No offence, but the shit you give me at the moment I could do in my sleep.”

Cullen shook his head. “I need to keep busy. It helps.”

“Believe me, I understand that - but I don’t want you to drown in all this.” Though unconvinced, he was also unsure what to say which could dissuade her, and so she continued. “How about this - for one hour every afternoon, you sit down with Cass or Dorian or Trevelyan and just… hang out. Play chess. Mock Cassandra about her choice in literature. And I come to your office and be you for an hour.”

“You would do that for me?” he asked, surprise colouring his tones, because it was still absolutely unfathomable that she wanted to help him.

“As long as I get to wear the coat - sure.”

The thought of Shepard wearing his clothes was certainly an intriguing one even if it was just a joke, and he felt compelled to ask what he most wanted to, just this once; he had to know beyond all reasonable doubt that it was hopeless, because then he’d have a chance of moving on, and then maybe if she did leave them one day he might not be completely and utterly crushed. “What—” he began, but his voice came out low and cracked; he cleared his throat before starting again. “What if I wanted to spend time with you?”

“Then I would have you checked for a head injury,” she said simply, and though it was exactly what he expected it still knocked the wind from him; something obviously showed on his face, because Shepard’s expression turned more serious. “Do you… want to spend time with me?”

“I just— of course; we are friends, are we not?” he scrambled as he lost his nerve, and though he felt himself entirely transparent she accepted the explanation without question.

“Yeah, I just didn’t think I’d be your first pick. And I might not be after we start these Halamshiral classes.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Cullen groaned. “I’d almost forgotten about that. Do you think if I pretend I’m still unwell I can escape them?”

“Probably not,” Shepard smiled. “I’ll try and think of some way to get us off the hook. Maybe I’ll set fire to the rotunda.”

“I thought you weren’t a mage,” Cullen pointed out, and she shot him a devilish grin.

“Who needs magic when I know where you store the pitch?”

Cullen chuckled, with that rumble of laughter only she seemed to elicit, though it was woefully short-lived; a moment later Liara and Dorian returned to their table, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. “What’s this?” Dorian asked. “Our Commander, laughing? Wonders will never cease.”

He shot Cullen an almost-imperceptible wink as he placed a new flagon in front of him; thankfully Liara and Shepard were already distracted by their own conversation, because otherwise the traitorous flush on his cheeks would have surely given him away. _Maker’s breath_ , he thought to himself as he took a long drag from his flagon. He needed to get over this, and quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I occasionally [write nonsense](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/170433253900/golden) over on [my tumblr](http://agentkatie.tumblr.com) too.


	32. Chapter 32

Shepard had been mostly joking about starting a fire to escape dance lessons, but Josephine clearly didn’t trust her not to follow through; she was rudely awoken at eight o’clock the following morning by the Ambassador hammering on her bedroom door, and subsequently dragged down to the War Room half-asleep and barely-dressed. Cullen was already there, as was Lady Vivienne; Cullen looked both more awake and more awkward than Shepard currently felt, impeccable as always in his armour, and when she waved to him in greeting the smile he offered back was more of a grimace.

“Here,” Josephine said, shoving a cup of coffee into Shepard’s hands; she took a sip but immediately regretted it, wincing as the bitter liquid scalded her tongue.

“Can I get some sugar?”

Vivienne tutted, stepping forward to take Shepard’s mug from her. “Lesson one: when you are offered food or drink in Orlais, you accept graciously. You do not ask for an alteration or make _that_ face.” She placed the mug down on the war table before putting her hands on her hips. “And, my dear, the other word you were looking for was _please_.”

Shepard had had little to do with Vivienne since joining the Inquisition; they’d not yet been in the field together, and the mage spent most of her time playing host to Skyhold’s wealthier visitors or reading in her spot above the Throne Room. Dorian had described her as a cunning, ambitious mage who’d flourished under the Circle’s repression; Sera’s description had been much the same, though she’d utilised far more acerbic language. As such, Shepard was torn between respect for a woman who’d earned power amongst those who wished to take it away, and irritation that she was using said power to boss her around.

“I’m sorry, Lady Vivienne; will you _please_ give me a fuc—”

She cut off abruptly as Cullen nudged her, slightly too hard, in the ribs with his elbow. “Stop it - you are just dragging this out.”

“Don’t _elbow_ me, Rutherford,” she said, nudging him right back, and with a groan Josephine put her hands on their shoulders and forced them apart.

“Lesson two: no elbowing!” she exclaimed, shooting Vivienne a look of pure exasperation.

“This reminds me of teaching the eight-year-olds at Montsimmard,” Vivienne noted. “Except they had basic manners. Must we take either of them to the Winter Palace?”

“The Inquisitor was quite insistent on Shepard.”

“A pity.”

“I’m standing right here!” Shepard bristled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes, dear, and you are standing entirely wrong,” Vivienne told her, stepping forward as she critically looked the two of them up and down. “As are you, Commander.”

“There is nothing wrong with the way I stand, Madame Vivienne,” Cullen said, in what he obviously hoped sounded like a polite tone of voice but which didn’t succeed at all.

“Not for a drill or inspection,” Josephine conceded. “But for a Grand Masque your postures are both far too aggressive. Shepard, you cannot cross your arms; arms by your side, push your shoulders back, feet slightly apart. Cullen, you do the same; you should not stand like you are constantly reaching for your sword.”

They both adjusted their postures accordingly, and Shepard’s new stance felt wholly unnatural; she felt as though she was preparing to cross a balance beam, and she vaguely wondered if the next step was having them balance books on their heads. “Better,” Vivienne nodded in approval, reaching out with one perfectly-manicured hand to tap underneath Shepard’s chin. “Remember to keep your chins at ninety degrees. Too high and you look arrogant; too low and you appear submissive.”

“No-one can really care about the angle of our jaws,” Cullen grumbled, his own jaw jutting out petulantly.

“You would be shocked as to what Orlais cares about, Commander,” Vivienne said. “Now, let’s make a start - do either of you have any prior dance experience?”

“I toured with the Royal Ballet for seven years.”

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Vivienne retorted, looking thoroughly unimpressed with Shepard’s attempts at humour. “Very well; first of all you’ll need to learn the different types of hold. Turn to face each other.” They did so, Cullen with more reluctance than Shepard; she bit her lip to stifle her laughter at the faint tinge of pink that was creeping onto his cheeks even as he frowned at the floor. If nothing else, watching him squirm during these lessons was going to be entertaining. “Both of you take half a step forward.” Shepard obeyed, but Cullen shuffled forward roughly an inch, his eyes still trained on the ground. “Commander, you will have to get closer than that.”

“This entire endeavour is an exercise in futility,” Cullen snapped, head jerking up to glare at Josephine. “I shall not be dancing at the Winter Palace; I do not see why I should be forced to learn.”

“We need to prepare for all opportunities,” Josephine said, her voice unusually hard as she addressed him. “You might not want to dance, but you may have to.”

“Why? In what scenario do you envisage me _dancing_ for the good of the Inquisition?”

“What if the Empress asks you to dance?”

“Why would your Empress wish to dance with me?”

“Maybe she has a thing for grumpy Fereldans,” Shepard offered, holding her hands up in surrender as he began to glower at her now. “At any rate, you shouldn’t be so dismissive. What if you find a nice girl there?”

Cullen’s jaw tightened in annoyance, though her words also had the effect of aggravating his blush. “There is not a single woman in the entirety of Orlais who could interest me.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Shepard tutted. “You’re not fucking Darcy.”

Cullen’s frown deepened at the reference he didn’t understand, and Vivienne let out a groan of disapproval. “My dear, if you could refrain from using the word _fuck_ for one evening it would be most appreciated.”

“It would also be a _fucking_ miracle.”

Shepard had opened her mouth to say that exact sentence, but Cullen had beaten her to it; she’d never heard him swear like that, and she looked up at him with mingled shock and pride. “ _Cullen Rutherford_!” she exclaimed. “Such vulgar language from such a good little Chantry boy!”

He arched an eyebrow at her, his mouth quirking into a lopsided smile she couldn’t remember ever seeing before, and she really did like it when he smiled; it made him look so much younger, loosening the tension from his perpetually-serious face and making him seem… softer, somehow. Less Rutherford, and more Cullen. “I assumed that would be your retort. Was I correct?”

She nodded with a delighted cackle of laughter; it wasn’t altogether surprising that he could predict her with such accuracy, but she did enjoy bringing him down to her level. “Fuck it; I’ve become predictable.”

“That’s it; I’m done,” Vivienne raised her hands in defeat. “Forgive me, Josephine, but you’ll have to deal with them yourself; I have better things to do than watch two people flirt. Perhaps Leliana can scare them into paying attention?”

“Madame Vivienne, please—”

“I’ll be in the Throne Room if you require me for something that doesn’t involve _them_ ,” she waved off Josephine’s plea as she swept out of the room, and for a moment Shepard thought Josephine was going to yell at them; her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared as her gaze flickered between Shepard and Cullen, but when she spoke it was with such sincerity that it actually made Shepard feel guilty.

“ _Please_. I require your utmost attention; you must understand that whether we succeed or fail in this war depends on what happens at Halamshiral.”

“It’s just a party, Josie,” Shepard said softly, but Josephine shook her head.

“Nothing is ‘just’ anything in Orlais,” she said, more firmly now. “Without Orlais as a stabilising force, the rest of Thedas will fall quickly. Antiva, The Free Marches. Ferelden,” she added with a pointed look at Cullen.

“We’ll pay attention,” Shepard told her. “Right, Cullen?”

Cullen, who had been glaring at the war table, snapped his head up at his name; he looked distractedly at Shepard, clearly having zoned out of the conversation some time ago. “What?” 

“We’re going to pay attention now, aren’t we?” she prompted him.

“Oh - ah - yes, of course. I apologise, Josephine,” he said, and Josephine nodded graciously. “But for the record, we were not _flirting_.” 

Shepard rolled her eyes, but avoided her usual teasing for the sake of Josephine’s nerves; instead she allowed herself to be directed into hold, taking Cullen’s gloved left hand in her right and placing her other hand on his shoulder. He looked just about ready to die when Josephine instructed him to take hold of her back; he gingerly placed one hand over her shoulderblade with the lightest of touches, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall behind Shepard as he blushed all the way up to his ears.

It was ever so slightly endearing when he blushed.

“Stop it,” Cullen growled as Josephine began to circle them, occasionally correcting their postures with a hand on their backs or a nudge of their arms.

“I’m not doing anything!” Shepard hissed back.

“You are _looking_ at me.”

“You’re my dance partner; where else am I supposed to look?”

“You should both look to the left, actually,” Josephine said now, tilting Shepard’s jaw up and to the left so she was staring at the ceiling. “Good. Just remember to keep your arms up and your frames straight. Also, you should have a second point of connection at your hips—”

“No.”

Shepard let out a groan of frustration, twisting to face him once more and ruining all of Josephine’s careful positioning in the process. “Who’s dragging it out now? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just like having me in your arms.”

“That is— I do _not_ — just—why would I—” 

The rest of his sentence was a collection of noises rather than any discernible words, and she shook her head in exasperation as he floundered for a response. For a while he’d been able to - if not match her - at least put up a fight when she teased him, and perhaps it was merely Josephine’s presence in the room which embarrassed him so; regardless, right now he was closer to that easily-flustered Knight-Captain than he’d been in years, and it made it tremendously difficult not to mess with him further.

“Shepard, stop it,” Josephine scolded, though her eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “You’ve both completely lost your lines - straighten again, both of you.” Shepard struggled to regain some of her former poise, straightening her back and sticking her elbows in the air, and she could tell by Josephine’s defeated little sigh she was nowhere close to correct. “It’ll do. Now, the steps…”

For the next half an hour Josephine coached them through the steps of a basic Orlesian waltz, and during that time Shepard found herself slowly but surely losing the will to live. She was acutely aware of her lack of dance skills - she’d been teased relentlessly about it by Garrus and Tali - and with great naïvety she’d once thought all she needed to prove them wrong were a few lessons. As it transpired, she’d been woefully mistaken. It was enough effort just to let Cullen lead; every muscle in her body strained against his dominance as he pushed into her, arms tense and aching in resistance to being controlled by someone else. Her posture was lost the moment they began, eyes frequently darting to their feet as they stepped around the War Room, and whenever Josephine reminded her to look up she found herself forgetting the difference between left and right. And her _rhythm_ ; how it was possible to miss the rhythm of a dance with three beats was baffling even to her, but somehow she managed it, each step mistimed and stilted and altogether just fucking _terrible_.

And in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t much matter that she was hopeless at dancing. But it was particularly irritating that Cullen - rigid and awkward though he was - was much better at it than her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she trod on his foot for the sixth time; he suppressed a wince as he persevered with their dance nonetheless, pushing her into a turn that almost made her fall over.

“I do not think this is working,” he muttered back, his gaze still fixed - correctly - to the left and away from her.

“I’m _trying_.”

“She will not give up; you may as well do it properly, and we might be done quicker.”

“You think I’m faking being bad,” she realised, and she almost didn’t want to correct him. “Oh, that’s so sweet. And misguided.”

He tilted his head a little towards her, looking down at her from the corner of his eyes with an arched brow. “Wait. This is you actually trying? _Maker’s breath_.”

His smugness at that discovery was almost too much to bear; she dropped her gaze to instead scowl at his shoulder as she felt an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment creep up her neck. “Shut up.”

“You’re blushing,” he said, the surprise in his voice quickly giving way to glee. “You’re actually _blushing_. I never thought I’d live to see the day Mollie Shepard became flustered.”

She jolted at the deliberately provocative use of her name, eyes darting towards Josephine to make sure she hadn’t overheard; thankfully she was too focused on their dance to listen in to their conversation. “If you don’t shut up I’ll trip you the fuck up,” she hissed, but her threat only made his infuriating smirk widen.

“Tsk, tsk. What did we say about language, Commander?” 

“I hate you. You’re the worst person in the entire world.”

He chuckled, and she could feel the vibrations of his laughter course through her own body; unwillingly she smiled too, though she cursed her lips for their treachery. “Yes; this is much better,” Josephine said approvingly. “Ideally you should not talk, but if it helps you I’m willing to allow it. One more turn around the room and you may finish.”

They lapsed once more into silence as their final turn flew by, the awkwardness that had overshadowed the rest of their lesson having finally given way to their usual comfort with each other. When they finally parted Cullen even offered her an inelegant little bow, though he seemed to immediately regret it; his eyes scrunched into a grimace as he jerked upright to face Josephine once more.

“That will do for today,” Josephine said, the faintest of smiles on her lips - though Shepard assumed it was relief at being done with them rather than approval of their progress. “Tomorrow we will—”

“Tomorrow?” Cullen interrupted. “No. You cannot expect us to engage in this - this _frivolity_ \- daily; I have far more important—”

“I know you would much rather be hunched over your papers, but one hour each morning before you start your work will not kill you,” Josephine cut him off, with a tone of voice that left no room for further protests. “I have much more to teach you than simple dancing, and very little time to do it in. You need to be at least passably proficient in The Game for our rehearsal ball.”

“What if I just promise not to talk to anyone?” Shepard offered. “I’ll just stand in the corner looking pretty in my dress.”

“ _You_ are going to be in a dress?”

There was something in the tone of Cullen’s voice as he asked that question which irked her; she frowned up at him with an arched eyebrow, daring him to contradict her. “Something wrong with that, Commander?”

“I just… do not see you as a dress person,” he shrugged. “There are few ways dresses can be customised to inflict injury.”

“You haven’t seen the instructions I sent to the tailor.”

“But I have, and they will not be adhered to,” Josephine said. “Go on; you’re both free for today. I will see you here tomorrow at eight - and if I do not, I will drag you out from your tower myself, Commander.”

\---

What Josephine failed to understand about Cullen’s reticence was that it was not due to perceived pointlessness or contempt; rather, it was based in concern that prolonged proximity to Shepard might finally push him over the edge. When she’d arrived in the War Room dishevelled and bleary-eyed, her plaid shirt buttoned incorrectly and more than a few crimson curls breaking free from her braid, she’d looked utterly, heartrendingly adorable - and whilst he was ignorant of The Game, he was fairly certain acting on the thoughts which crossed his mind during that session would get him banned from ever stepping foot in Orlais.

Which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Nonetheless, he restrained himself from scandalising Josephine, for the simple fact that Shepard’s obliviousness was matched only by her complete lack of interest in him; he resisted pressing her closer than appropriate during their dance, resisted kissing the slender column of her neck as she’d tilted her head to the left. Resisted the urge to sling her over his shoulder and barricade them both in his tower when she’d blushed. And when they’d finished, he resisted following her, lingering in the War Room under the façade of inspecting his map, listening carefully as her footsteps faded into the distance and then - with a long, pained groan - bending to rest his forehead against the table.

“Dance lessons went well, I take it.” He jolted upright and swivelled towards the doorway, to where an insufferably smug Dorian was leaning against the frame. “Ah, Commander. We have much to talk about, don’t we?”

“We have nothing to talk about,” Cullen grumbled as Dorian sidled into the room, closing the door before Cullen could bolt through it; he approached him at the war table, leaning against it and folding his arms across his chest.

“On the contrary, I can think of several things we need to discuss. Your opinion on Tevinter, that dreadful uniform you outfit your men in, and what else - oh, yes; you being in love with your best friend. Woefully predictable though that final point is.” 

“Do not be absurd; I am not in _love_ with her,” Cullen protested, because _that_ was something he refused to let himself entertain. “I just think she’s…”

“Flawless? Incandescent? Heart-stoppingly beautiful?”

“She’s alright,” he begrudgingly offered, because agreeing with any one of those options was likely to make Dorian even more intolerable.

“Steady on, Commander; there’s no need to be quite so gushing,” Dorian said with a roll of his eyes. “But you are correct, of course; she isn’t anything special. She _could_ be passably pretty if she styled her hair in something other than that ratty braid, but the scar really ruins—”

“That is _enough_ ,” Cullen snapped. “I will not allow you speak of her in such a disrespectful, unwarranted—” he trailed off as he caught sight of Dorian’s renewed smirk, rubbing the back of his neck as he sighed. “Alright, point proven.”

“So?” Dorian asked, continuing when Cullen merely shot him a confused look. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Ignore it and hope it goes away?”

“I see. And how is that working out for you so far?”

Cullen groaned again, scrubbing his stubbled chin with one hand whilst glaring down at their war map. If only navigating his feelings were as simple as planning a mission; if only he could order his emotions away, sound a retreat back to that simpler time before he’d realised just how extraordinary she was. “There is very little point in proceeding in any other way,” he said quietly. “It is abundantly clear she does not share my sentiment; I would rather suffer in silence until this passes than risk losing her.”

Dorian sighed, smiling sympathetically as he placed a hand on Cullen’s arm. “You fail to realise that just because she does not currently feel the same way doesn’t mean she cannot.”

“Of course. Because I never took away her freedom, or belittled her, or _stabbed her_.”

“If any of that still bothered her she wouldn’t give you the time of day,” he pointed out, more firmly now. “She _likes_ you; you just have to woo her a little.”

“You expect me to _woo_ Shepard?” Cullen scoffed. “How in the Void would I go about doing that? Buy her flowers, perhaps recite an epic ballad? She would die from laughter, and I would die shortly after of humiliation.”

“You could take your shirt off and challenge her to a spar; I’m certain that would work.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

“Fine; ruin all our fun,” Dorian tutted. “But you know her better than anyone else; you should know the way to her heart by now.”

 _The way to Shepard’s heart_ ; that was far too elusive a concept for him to even hope to identify. He knew what she liked, of course; coarse jokes and relentless teasing were top of the list, followed closely by trying to knock over things twice her size. And beneath that brash exterior was the woman who valued courage and determination; who unflinchingly followed her moral compass and demanded nothing less of those around her. Who held integrity and goodness of character in the highest regard.

Therein lay the problem - because fundamentally, he wasn’t a good man. And certainly not a good enough one for her.

“I do not know why you are bothering me about this,” Cullen muttered. “I note that _you_ did not tell me about yourself and The Iron Bull.”

“Shepard has a big mouth. You should see it put to better use.”

“ _Dorian_!”

The door of the War Room slammed open before he could chastise Dorian further, and his mouth snapped shut as the Inquisitor - followed closely by Shepard - barrelled into the room. “Commander, may I please speak with you?” the Inquisitor said. “ _Alone_?” he added with a pointed glare at Shepard.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I do not require your help on this matter, Shepard.”

“Wrong; you need all the help you can fucking get.”

“What is the problem here?” Cullen demanded, his gaze flicking uneasily between the quarrelling pair; he’d never known Trevelyan to argue with anyone, and he worried what Shepard possibly could have done to provoke him.

“Nothing is—”

“Trevelyan is the most hopeless romantic I’ve ever met in my life,” Shepard cut him off. “And I don’t mean in a ‘love conquers all’ sort of way; I mean he’s actually fucking hopeless.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

Cullen just about suppressed the urge to shove Dorian, and thankfully Shepard spoke before he could say anything more damning. “I doubt it. I just had to witness with my own eyes the worst pick-up attempt in history; he asked Josephine—”

“ _Shh_!” Trevelyan hissed, quickly closing the door of the War Room once more; when it was shut he turned back to Shepard, face contorted in indignation. “It was all your fault; I was put off by you hovering at the door.”

“Right. It was _my_ fault you told her you wanted to learn about the intricacies of Antivan trading law; no, you’re just pissy because now you have homework.”

“Maker preserve me,” Dorian muttered. “I am going to lock you in a room with Cullen and beat you both with the latest copy of _Swords and Shields_ until you learn something about romance.”

“It’s not like Cullen needs it; he’s… you know,” Trevelyan said, gesturing vaguely at Cullen, and he didn’t know what _that_ meant but he felt his cheeks colour all the same. “What do you think I should do, Commander?”

Dorian let out a bark of laughter as he shook his head, and Cullen shot him a withering look that only made him laugh harder. “Inquisitor, I’m not sure I am best placed to advise on this matter,” was what he offered in response, determinedly looking anywhere but at Shepard.

“Then Dorian - what you do think?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking them for,” Shepard interjected. “I’ve been with more women than those two put together. Not that that would be hard, but still.”

It was best not to dwell too much on _that_ , because the image she conjured was equal parts jealousy-inducing and arousing. “I don’t want your advice, because I know it will be ‘get her drunk’,” Trevelyan grumbled.

“That wouldn’t be my advice at all! My advice would be to get her a gift.”

“I am not going to buy Josephine’s affection with—”

“I’m not talking about some generic shit; get her something that means something. If you care about her that much you should know what’s important to her.” 

“Is that what would work on you, Shepard?” Dorian asked in far too innocent a voice.

“My dear Lord Pavus, I didn’t think I was your type,” Shepard grinned. “Buy me a new ship and a shit-tonne of whiskey, and I might consider it.”

“Do we have enough gold in the treasury for that, Commander?”

Cullen scowled at him, desperate for him to stop talking but unable to think of any way other than murder to achieve that. “No, we do not. If she wants a ship she’ll have to steal one.”

“Duty noted. Trevelyan; when you’re doing your homework, find out if the Montilyets keep their shipyard unlocked.”

“Ah - yes, of course,” he replied distractedly, evidently not having heard a word of what Shepard had said. “Excuse me; I need to speak with Leliana.”

He whisked out of the War Room once more, face set with a determination Cullen hadn’t seen since Adamant, and Cullen couldn’t help but smile. At least _one_ of them was making progress with the object of their affections. “Does Leliana know about him and Josephine?” Shepard asked.

“She knows everything,” Cullen said. “And she was none too thrilled about it the last time the subject arose.”

“Is that so?” Shepard mused, looking through the doorway after their leader with renewed interest. “See you later, boys; I just remembered I’m needed in the library.”

As she hurried out of the War Room to pursue her daily fill of gossip the most peculiar sense of dread came over Cullen; he looked towards Dorian, ignoring the way he shook his head and muttered _utterly hopeless_ under his breath. “You don’t think Leliana knows about… Shepard?”

“I daresay she knew before you did.” Cullen grimaced at the response which was in no way reassuring, and Dorian patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. “Smile, Commander,” he told him. “You’ll never win her over with that frown.”


	33. Chapter 33

Shepard and Cullen’s etiquette lessons, though often humiliating, turned out to be strangely enjoyable; they’d never had quite as much fun together as when they were mocking Orlesian customs or wildly improvising during Josephine’s carefully-constructed scenarios. _Cullen_ and _fun_ were words she’d once thought impossible to use in succession, but he’d clearly just never had the chance to shine in Kirkwall; now he _laughed_ , frequently and freely, and when he did all she wanted to do was laugh with him. In truth, there was no-one in the Inquisition she’d rather spend a day with. 

Not that she’d ever admit that to him.

And so their lessons continued, and Skyhold quickly became a blur of dancing and decorum as they swept forward to Josephine’s ball. Technically it was the Inquisitor’s ball, and technically it was only a rehearsal for Halamshiral, but Shepard knew better than that; for Josephine it was a way to impress Orlais with the scope of the Inquisition, and for Trevelyan it was a convenient excuse to ingratiate himself with their Ambassador. Renovators arrived by the wagonload to repair worn-down walls, whilst decorators adorned their beautiful castle with ostentatious heraldry; once the help were out of sight, the nobility descended, flooding their halls with oversized dresses and mindless chatter. And though Shepard wasn’t opposed to the ball like Cullen was - in fact, she was rather looking forward to it - she would have preferred it if there were fewer people loitering and getting in her way.

But then the evening arrived, as did her dress, and all excitement she’d felt quickly shrivelled up and died.

“I think it looks fine,” Liara told her, circling her to puff out her skirt as Shepard inspected herself in the mirror.

“The dress looks fine,” Shepard agreed. “I look terrible.”

 _Fine_ was actually an understatement - the dress was _stunning_. A floor-length gown of taffeta and tuille, midnight blue intricately embellished with fine silver thread, a sweetheart neckline that would probably be described as _daring_ ; if she were a romantic woman, which she was not, she might have drawn parallels between the dress and the starry sky she loved so much. For lack of a better word, she _sparkled_. But that was from the front. From the back… well, there had been a few last-minute alterations, and now there was no back, the laced panel completely stripped away and revealing to the world the scarred canvas which lay underneath.

“Did you not realise during your fittings it was backless?”

“It _wasn’t_ backless in the fittings,” Shepard growled. “Fuck it; I’m not going.”

“But you want to go.”

“Nope,” she shook her head viciously, a few curls dislodging from the elaborate up-do their coiffeur had spent an hour crafting. “I’m going to stay in confinement with you and make Cole steal us fancy food.” 

“Shepard…” Liara sighed and shook her head. “Let me try and find something you can wear over your shoulders. I’ll be back—”

“You can’t leave; what if someone sees you?” 

“I think I can handle a couple of nobles. I’ll be back soon,” she told her, offering a smile of reassurance before slipping out of Shepard’s quarters and leaving her alone with her reflection.

Shepard glared at herself in the mirror again, twisting so she could see her back and wincing at the sight. The scars, she told herself, did not bother her; they were a part of her, telling her life’s story as plainly as if someone had scored the words into her flesh. The shotgun wound at her shoulder - the one so bad the batarians had assumed she was dead - a furious gnarled centre with the bullet’s spread radiating out like a starburst, but which had marked her heart far more than her body. The wide, horizontal scar across her left loin; the Thresher Maw on Akuze had gouged deep, and alone in the field she’d just had to pack the wound and hope for the best. The long scar which ran from the base of her skull down to below even where her dress re-emerged, neat and tidy but still visible; that was Miranda’s work, strengthening her crushed spine in the wake of the first Normandy’s destruction. In fact of all the things Cerberus had rebuilt, her back had been mostly left alone; her chestplate had cracked when she’d crash-landed on Alchera, and whilst the rest of her had rotted the most imperfect part was frozen and preserved. Cerberus had instead focused on her fingers, face, legs; her torso a lower priority than the tools she relied upon. Perhaps Miranda would have gotten round to fixing her scars, if the Project hadn’t been terminated early; Shepard had never thought to ask, because it didn’t really matter. She was alive and in one piece, more or less; the Reapers were of far more concern than her broken skin. 

No; what bothered her was the reaction of others. Whether it be the staring and quiet mumbles of her fellow soldiers at the gym, or a joke regarding her lack of prowess from someone who quickly discovered they were _not_ as close as they thought - it was always other people who irritated her, who she fought against with quick words and unnecessary shows of her competence. But now she was expected to parade around in front of the Orlesian court with what might as well be her soul on show, and how was she supposed to fight their judgement with a smile?

And in all truth, she reluctantly admitted to herself, the scars did bother her a little.

She ran her hand over the twisted skin of her shoulder, and something inside her snapped; with a frustrated snarl she lashed out, pushing the full-length mirror to the floor and watching with satisfaction as it shattered. She heard the door burst open behind her, followed by a gasp, and the strangest sense of dread filled her stomach as she swivelled to face the intruder. It was Cullen, sword drawn and looking at her like she was another species; his eyes were wide and his mouth hanging stupidly open, and she knew by his expression he’d seen everything. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling very naked in front of him, summoning up her best frown as she spoke.

“You can’t just burst into my room! I could’ve been changing!”

“I—I know,” he mumbled, sheathing his sword as he glanced down at the broken mirror. “It’s just I heard a crash and - are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_. Why were you lurking outside my room?”

“I was not _lurking_ ,” he said indignantly. “I came to fetch you; it’s started already, and I’m in desperate need of an ally.”

“Then you’ll have to look elsewhere, because I’m not coming.”

“Why not?” Cullen asked as he stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him, looking a little disappointed by her response. _Why not_ , he asked, as if he didn’t know already. He had just as many scars as she did - she’d seen it for herself the night she’d looked after him in his tower - but _he_ wasn’t being made to bare them; instead he’d been wrestled out of his usual armour and into a form-fitting coat a similar shade to her dress. Great; they were _matching_ , and he looked better than her.

“You saw why,” she muttered, gesturing vaguely to her back - and for fuck’s sake, was she actually starting to _blush_? It was only Cullen. She tried to sidestep to her wardrobe, avoiding showing her back to him, but he placed his hand firmly on the wardrobe door to stop her from opening it; he looked at her for a long moment, searching her face as though trying to figure out what she wanted to hear from him. 

“They must have been very painful,” he said eventually.

“They were.”

“What happened?”

He knew already; she’d told him of Mindoir and Akuze, but he hadn’t connected the events with the marks they’d left on her. And right now, she didn’t want to talk about them. “Several things,” she said. “None of which I wish to discuss at present.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “You know, they aren’t as bad as you think.”

Shepard rolled her eyes and tutted. “Rutherford, you’re a terrible liar. I heard your gasp of horror when you entered the room.”

“What—I didn’t gasp in horror!” he exclaimed, eyes widening and looking honestly troubled she’d assumed as much. “That was a gasp of—well, of never seeing you in a dress before,” he said, dropping his gaze to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You - uh - you look very nice, Shepard.”

“Yeah, from the front,” she grumbled, teetering over to her bed and sitting down - according to Leliana, stilettos were the perfect shoe to accompany her dress, even if she could barely walk in them. “I know it’s vanity. It’s just… it’s none of their business, y’know? I shouldn’t have to show them that part of myself. And besides - everyone out there thinks I’m a mage, and mages aren’t supposed to have scars. They’re all going to think I’m a terrible fighter.”

“No-one who saw those scars could possibly think that,” Cullen said firmly. “And if someone is stupid enough to make such a comment, you _could_ just Throw them across the room.”

In spite of herself, Shepard felt a smile coming on. “You’re sanctioning bodily harm on these nobles?”

“I think I’m encouraging it.”

Shepard actually laughed at that - strange, how _Cullen_ was suddenly the one who made her laugh, who made her feel good about herself - and he smiled back, taking a seat next to her on the bed.

“You have to come down,” he said, a hint of begging in his voice now. “Look, Shepard; there are a lot of women there, and men, and they… they keep saying things to me.”

“Things?” Shepard echoed, eyebrow quirking up in amusement as Cullen avoided eye contact. “What sort of things?”

“Forward things.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it?”

“What you always do! Talk circles around them until they leave in confusion, convince them I’m the least eligible man in Thedas. Or… I don’t know, just stand there and glare at them. If nothing else, having a beautiful woman by my side might do something to deter them.”

Shepard let out a small, involuntary splutter, head turning towards him so quickly she almost jarred her neck. Had he really just called her _beautiful_? She’d been called many things in her life - brave, stubborn, insufferable - but _beautiful_ had always been a rarity. To hear Cullen, the Templar who had hunted her halfway across Thedas and somehow ended up her friend, call her that was… well, she didn’t quite know what to make of it. 

“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked tentatively.

He cleared his throat, rubbing his neck again as he looked away from her. “I—well, you know. You are— or rather, there are—objectively, your features might be considered attractive. You know that.”

“Wow. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet a man who thinks I have _objectively attractive features_.” She shook her head, fiddling with the fabric of her dress so that the silver thread glinted in the light. The dress was certainly more than objectively attractive, and it annoyed her; the sheer beauty of the gown only brought into sharper focus the fact she did not belong in it. And that was fine. She was a soldier; it had been stupid to think she could carry off anything other than armour. “I’m sorry, Cullen, but I still don’t want to go down. Not like this.”

“I understand,” he nodded, though his expression was thoughtful. “If it is only the dress which bothers you, what if— if we found you something else to wear?” he offered, standing up to walk over to her wardrobe. “Or some sort of scarf—”

“All I have in there is four plaid shirts, two sets of trousers and about sixteen thousand belts.”

“What about this?” he asked, turning his attention to her chest of drawers and picking up some sort of silvery fabric that lay on top of it; she frowned as she stood once more, stepping towards him to inspect it.

“That’s not mine.”

“It was on your dresser.” He unfolded the material, one edge fluttering free to reveal a simple silken rectangle just wide enough to wrap around her shoulders. “Perhaps Josephine sent it with the dress?”

“Maybe,” Shepard said, though she was unconvinced; she couldn’t remember ever seeing it before that moment.

“Here,” Cullen said, holding the wrap up to her; she reached out to take it from him but instead he drew it round her, his hands resting on her shoulders for a moment as he inspected the end result. “Perfect,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it, and it wasn’t true but she appreciated him saying it all the same. “Shepard, I… I—”

Whatever Cullen was about to say was interrupted by the door creaking open one more, and Liara rushed inside with a bundle under one arm. “All I could find was—” she began, but stopped as she noticed Cullen; she narrowed her eyes at him as he quickly dropped his hands from Shepard’s shoulders. “I see you didn’t need my help after all.”

“I think this came up with the dress,” Shepard told her. “Thanks, though.”

“Well, then,” Liara said, placing her bundle - what appeared to be a woollen shawl - on Shepard’s dresser and smiling at her. “Have fun. Make sure you send Cole up to me with some of that fancy food.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am.”

“And try not to break your neck in those heels.”

“I thought you seemed taller than usual,” Cullen noted. “Uh - shall we?”

She nodded, pulling her wrap tighter around her shoulders as she finally left her room, Cullen following closely behind her; she could already hear the bustle of the ball from her spot above the courtyard, the doors to the Throne Room thrown open and a few partygoers drifting out into the garden. “So, what’s the problem with the Orlesians?” Shepard asked. “They keep flirting with you?”

“ _Flirting_ is too innocuous a term,” Cullen grumbled. “They are belligerent.”

“Are they worse than me?” she asked with a sly smile.

“A thousand times worse.”

“Damn; I must be losing my touch. And you’re giving me free reign to do whatever I want to shake them off?” He nodded. “That’s brave. For all you know, I could be about to start a rumour that you’re poorly endowed and selfish in bed.”

“I trust you.”

“Very brave.” They stopped in the antechamber between the outside courtyard and Vivienne’s balcony. “Alright. Now, there’s not anyone in there you’re actually interested in, is there? Because this will probably scare them off too.”

“There is not, but you’re starting to make me nervous.”

“Oh, don’t wuss out now. Here,” she said as she pulled him to face her, undoing his top button and tugging his jacket to sit crookedly on his shoulders. Stepping onto her tiptoes, she reached up and ruffled his hair; he took a surprised step back, batting her hands away.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he attempted to straighten his hair, but she grabbed his hands to stop him.

“Leave it; I’m not done yet.”

“But—”

“I thought you trusted me?” she said, opening up her little bag and pulling out the lipstick Vivienne had provided her with for the evening. “Here,” she said, unscrewing the top and brandishing it at him.

“Shepard, I am not putting on _lipstick_.”

“Rutherford, you asked me to help you, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do it properly. Now put this on and—”

“No.”

“Have it your way.” She applied another coat of paint to her lips before grabbing a fistful of his coat and, pulling him down to her height, planting a firm kiss on his cheek. And it was _nothing_ ; an action designed for a singular purpose, with no premeditation or emotion behind it. Except that her heart fluttered as her lips brushed against his stubbled jawline, and her stomach flipped at the choked sound he made at their proximity. 

_Fuck._

She pushed away from him, more roughly than she ought to, eyes flitting from her lipstick-mark to his blush-tinged cheeks and then, inexplicably, to his scarred upper lip, and had that ragged patch of skin always made him look quite so handsome? Or did it merely work in combination with the navy jacket around his strong shoulders, and the golden hair which sparkled in synchrony with those honey-warm eyes, and—

And _oh, fuck_.

“Right!” she exclaimed, in a voice far too loud and unnatural. “That’s… that. Just… give me your arm and when we enter the room start laughing. You can straighten up once the court’s taken a good look at you.”

“Are you not concerned what our friends may think of this?” he grumbled, though he obeyed her instructions and offered her his arm; she linked it with her own, clasping her hands protectively over his forearm - his _ridiculously muscular_ forearm now she thought about it, the definition obvious even beneath his jacket, and she’d always enjoyed a strong pair of arms to—

“Shepard?” His voice swam through the self-destructive haze of thoughts which was threatening to consume her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fucking fine, why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“Because, you’re…” he said, glancing down at the vice-like grip with which she held onto his arm; she hastily scrambled to loosen her hold on him, forcing herself back into the moment and away from the ludicrous tangent her mind was currently traversing. Because this was _Cullen_ ; it didn’t matter that he looked damn good in a suit, or that his lingering blush was completely adorable, because he was _Cullen_. He was her friend, and she was fairly certain he found her irritating at least seventy percent of the time, and most importantly she didn’t _want_ him. She didn’t want anyone.

Even though she’d rather liked hearing him call her beautiful.

“Sorry,” she shook her head, angling her body away from him. “I just— I need to hang onto you, because I can’t walk in these fucking shoes.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether she wanted to kiss that smug little grin of his or punch it. “You are supposed to be cutting down on the swearing.”

“Fuck off.”

Her heart fluttered again as he laughed, and there was something _very_ wrong with her tonight; perhaps she was having a psychotic break, or a massive cerebral haemorrhage, because there was no way in Hell she was in sound mind and considering Cullen as something other than… _Cullen_. Was she?

No. No, she was categorically not considering it, because she _couldn’t_.

She tore her eyes away from him as she pushed the door open and led him forward into the throng of nobles; a number of heads snapped towards them, but with their faces concealed by masks it was hard to tell precisely what their reaction was. “Why didn’t we get fucking masks?”

A woman nearby in an elaborate pink mask and matching dress audibly gasped at her language, and Cullen tried and failed to choke back another laugh. “They are to identify different houses and statuses, remember?”

“No. I want one.”

“Sera will probably steal you one if you ask her nicely. We should—” 

“Commander! You disappeared!”

“Oh, _Maker_ ,” Cullen muttered, his eyes darting around wildly for a way to escape the woman approaching them, and Shepard tightened her grip on him once more to stop him from bolting.

“I’ve got this,” she whispered, turning her body so as to shield him from the woman. “When I say—”

Shepard’s plan was thwarted before she’d even begun to hatch it; she was actually _pushed_ out of the way by the noble who seemed in such desperate pursuit of Cullen, and with an incredible amount of self-restraint she resisted Throwing her off the balcony in return.

“Commander! I thought you’d abandoned us. Keeping us on our toes, I see. Now, we were discussing your visit to Lydes?”

“I—uh—” he stuttered, shooting Shepard a desperate look; she linked arms with him again, twisting to stand alongside him in solidarity against the Orlesian assault.

“He doesn’t have time to go on vacation; he’s a little busy with the great big hole in the sky. I get that most of you courtiers haven’t noticed it since your heads are so far up—” He gave her a little nudge as his eyes widened in warning, but she couldn’t fail to notice the twinkle of amusement on his face. “ _Je suis tres, tres désolé, Mademoiselle_ ,” she started again, forcing just the correct amount of sarcasm into her accent. “Commander Cullen would _love_ to spend some time prancing around provincial Orlais, but unfortunately he has a world to save. _Quel dommage_.”

The woman gave her a long look before - to Shepard’s utmost displeasure - completely ignoring her and addressing Cullen once more. “I am sure you will find Lydes much to your approval, Commander. It is home to a much more dignified class of people.”

“I rather like the class of people here.”

“I can see how they might be entertaining. For a night.” 

The woman reached out, one gloved hand cupping his cheek to wipe away Shepard’s lipstick-mark; Cullen flinched, fear shining in his eyes for a brief but heartrending second, and quite unexpectedly _fury_ sparked to life inside Shepard. She grabbed the woman’s wrist is a grip so tight it made her squeak, wrenching it away from Cullen and holding it in front of her face.

“If you _ever_ touch someone I care about without their permission again, I will break every single bone in this hand.”

The woman whimpered as Shepard released her, massaging her wrist and glaring at her through her mask. “And if _you_ ever lay another finger on me, my father will not rest until your head is mounted on a pike.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to cook your brain inside your skull instead; that way there won’t be any evidence linking me to the crime.” To emphasise her point she summoned up a weak mass effect field around her, just strong enough to make her eyes glow, and what little skin was visible on the woman’s face turned very pale in response.

“I can see you are busy, Commander,” she said, her voice wavering even as she attempted to appear nonchalant. “I hope to find you later, when you are in less objectionable company.” She offered him a little curtsy before scurrying away, looking utterly terrified, and Shepard almost felt bad; it had been a complete overreaction, and one she’d barely had control over, but the distress on Cullen’s face had forced all rational thought aside.

That was it; it had just been instinct, a reflex to protect a friend. It had had nothing to do with jealousy.

“Can you actually do that?” Cullen asked. “The brain-cooking thing?”

“Nah. But did you see her face when I said it? Priceless.”

“I hope you still find it funny when Josephine kills you.” He shook his head, tension still written across his face even as he smiled faintly, and she didn’t entirely understand it; she’d flirted with him for years, often far more viciously than that, and though he’d often seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable he’d never seemed _scared_.

Or maybe he’d just never wanted her to see it.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like that,” she blurted out, a terrible sense of guilt clawing at the base of her neck.

“What? No!” he said, a frown puckering his brow as he looked worriedly at her. “You are… I know you’ve never meant anything by the— the flirting. You do it solely to fluster me. With them, there is…” he trailed off, searching for the correct word. “Intent,” he settled on, turning his frown towards the floor, and the vulnerability in his expression was almost too much to bear.

“Hey,” she said, squeezing his arm once before letting go. “I’ve always got your back.”

“I know. Thank you.” He smiled at her, though it immediately flickered as he focused on something over her shoulder. “Oh, _Maker preserve us_.”

“Another one?” Shepard asked, immediately preparing for the second wave of attack.

“Worse.”

“What are you two _doing_?” It was Josephine, who somehow managed to sound furious even though her face was completely blank. “Shepard - I could hear you swearing from halfway across the hall. And as for _you_ —”

“Josie, have you seen Trevelyan?” Shepard cut her off. “I think he’s looking for you. I think he has something very important to tell you.”

The faintest of blushes coloured their Ambassador’s cheeks even as she drew herself up taller. “Whatever the Inquisitor has to say, it can wait until we are next around the War Table. Shepard, you are coming with me; if I do not see you behave in a well-mannered fashion this evening I will have you cut from the Winter Palace. Cullen - fix your appearance, now.”

“But—”

“ _Now_.” He grit his teeth as he wiped off Shepard’s lipstick with the back of his glove, and Josephine linked arms with Shepard in what felt more like a restraint than a friendly hold. “Good. Now, Shepard; I have a number of dukes I wish for you to meet.”

She wasn’t sure who was worse off for the separation - Cullen for being left alone, or her for being forced into small-talk; she caught his eye, mouthing _find Trevelyan_ as she discreetly tilted her head towards Josephine and made an obscene gesture with her fingers. He nodded, biting his lower lip to try and hide his amusement as his eyes fell on her hands - and she was certain he never used to smile this much, because surely she would have noticed just how captivating his lips were before now? 

Before she could dwell further on that smile Josephine pulled her away from him, and her objectivity quickly returned as he faded from view - although a nagging sense of emptiness lingered in her chest, and never before had she been this frustrated with her body for disagreeing so vehemently with her mind. _Commander fucking Shepard_ , she scolded herself, picking up a glass of champagne in an attempt to fill the emptiness with alcohol. _Stop this at once_.

\---

\---

For the next hour an increasingly pissed-off Shepard was dragged from noble to noble under the watchful eye of Josephine, and she was almost convinced their Ambassador wanted her to fail. She didn’t know why else she was being made to listen to some idiotic Marquis boast about his fencing abilities, but she was incredibly proud of herself for not putting his oversized head through a wall. 

When she wasn’t being forced into polite conversation, she spent a disproportionate amount of time glaring at Cullen and his stupidly handsome face from across the room. He _was_ stupidly handsome, there was no point denying it; he’d suddenly developed into a dashing warrior where once all she’d seen was a uptight Templar, and that shift was so intensely infuriating it made her want to scream. She didn’t _want_ to see Cullen in that way. It was an unnecessary complication to what was undoubtedly the best relationship she had; whilst she and Liara had drifted apart over the years, she’d inexplicably grown closer and closer to the man who’d once had her in chains, and there was a distinct possibility he was now her closest friend in all of Thedas. 

But was it more than that? 

_No_ , she told herself firmly, it was not more than that - it could never be. Her path in life had been forged many years ago, in blood and fire and pain; a future of tender embraces and simple domesticity had never been on the cards. She’d tried to break free before, flirting briefly with romance as war raged on around her, and her heart had been so thoroughly pulverised in the process she couldn’t face the prospect of it again. She was happy as she was; she neither wanted nor needed anything more - least of all with Cullen, who’d considered her an enemy for far too long to ever see her as more than a friend. 

But he’d called her beautiful.

The last person who’d called her that had been Kaidan. He hadn’t outright said the word, only intimated it; still her heart had quickened as they’d looked out over the Citadel, heat suffusing the chest she’d long encased in steel. It had ended before it had ever truly begun, extinguished on Virmire when she’d uttered a name which wasn’t his, with an empty workstation all that remained of her tentative hope for tomorrows. And there’d been no hope of tomorrow at all with Thane. He’d called her a warrior-angel, his reason to live, but never beautiful; his words had always transcended the physical, theirs a relationship rooted more in the mind than the body. A relationship doomed to perish in the throes of war, for being someone’s reason to live was not enough to stop them from dying.

No, she was not a woman for tomorrow; today was all she could count on. And today Cullen was thoroughly irritating her with his face.

“Shepard? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Shepard tore her attention away from Cullen - who’d managed to enlist Trevelyan and Dorian as shields against his admirers - and attempted to focus on Josephine. “No,” she admitted. “Sorry, Josie.”

Josephine sighed, and though she expected a reprimand she instead proceeded with a soft voice. “Is everything alright? You do not seem yourself this evening.”

“I’m fine. I just…” she trailed off, eyes involuntarily flitting to Cullen once more; he was in deep discussion with Trevelyan, their heads bowed together as Cullen whispered urgently in his ear.

“I’m sorry about the dress,” Josephine said, pulling the hem of Shepard’s wrap lower where it had ridden up her side, her fingers brushing softly over the exposed sliver of scarred skin. “Leliana suggested the alteration might make you look taller; we did not realise—”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, though she didn’t offer an alternate explanation, content for Josephine to believe that rather than know the truth. “So - how do you reckon the evening’s going?”

Josephine’s face brightened at the change of subject. “Excellent, I think. Much of the nobility have intimated how impressed they are - not only with Skyhold, but with the Inquisitor too. He has done exceptionally well tonight.”

“Yeah. And he looks good in that suit, too.”

“That has also been expressed to me a number of times this evening,” Josephine said, the faintest of frowns creeping onto her brow.

“Then maybe you should make your move before someone else snaps him up.”

“My— my what? I do not know what you mean,” Josephine floundered as she began to blush, and it was possibly the first time Shepard had ever seen her flustered.

“Don’t play innocent, Montilyet. I’ve seen how you two gaze at each other, and it’s sickening.”

“We do not _gaze_!” Josephine protested, though her indignation immediately crumpled as Shepard arched an eyebrow at her. “Marcus is a charming, soft-hearted man. I do not presume his geniality towards me is anything more than natural kindness.”

“Are you kidding? He’s fucking smitten.”

“ _Language_ , Shepard,” Josephine scolded, but she was smiling now, eyes sparkling as she glanced across the floor to Trevelyan. Shepard smiled faintly, giving her a little nudge.

“Go on. Go get him.”

“I can’t. I still have to speak with Comte de Mourier, and I have you to—”

“I promise not to kill anyone whilst you’re gone. I won’t even maim anyone. Please - just go and have some fun.”

She remained hesitant, opening her mouth to protest further, but an exceptionally nervous-looking Trevelyan appeared at her elbow before she could speak; Cullen had evidently been more persuasive than she had. “Lady Montilyet?” he said, voice surprisingly steady despite the way he fiddled restlessly with his sash. “I was wondering if you would take a turn around the garden with me?”

“I… yes,” Josephine nodded resolutely, and Shepard grinned. “I would like that very much.”

He offered her his arm, and Josephine took it, shooting Shepard one final look as a silent warning to behave before sweeping out of the Throne Room together. Almost reflexively, she glanced across the room at Cullen; his eyes met hers through the crowd, and his soft smile when she mouthed _finally_ at him sent a thrill up her spine that made her want to rip her biotic amp out.

She really needed to stop looking at him.

“Shit,” Bull muttered, coming to stand next to Shepard with two drinks in hand. “I owe the dwarf money; l said it’d be Halamshiral before they got it on. Drink?”

She accepted his offering readily, taking a gulp from the champagne flute and gagging as something which was definitely _not_ champagne hit the back of her throat. “Good God, what have you put in here?”

“Maraas-Lok; Qunari liquor. Thought you could use it - you’ve had a face like a slapped nug all evening.”

“So would you if you had to listen to Duke de Boring harp on about his moth collection. How come no-one let me in on that bet?”

“We made it back before you joined us,” Bull shrugged. “We’ve got some others going, though. Wanna put something on Cassandra and Varric?”

“Varric’s bet on him hooking up with Cass?”

“Nah; I’ve got that one running with Sera. Come on, you’ve seen how they bicker - they pretend to hate each other way too much for them not to be in love.”

The most peculiar sense of dread clutched at Shepard’s gut in response to those words, the alcohol he’d given her churning uncomfortably in her stomach. That… that was absolutely _not_ it. For one she’d never hated Cullen - pretend or otherwise - and though they’d frequently clashed it had never been without reason. Their squabbles were based on serious issues, on dead mages and misplaced duty and the fact he’d almost killed her; the thought of those arguments being a front for something else was pop psychology, and bullshit.

And besides, they didn’t even fight anymore. 

No, it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even romantic affection; it was the fact she hadn’t had sex in four years.

“Fuck, I need to get laid.”

Bull laughed raucously, slapping Shepard on the back with such force her knees buckled. “We’ve got to get you a man, huh? Or a woman? What’s your poison?”

“I’m not having you set me up, Bull,” Shepard said, a little too harshly. “I don’t want to go on dates and have flowers sent to me and frolic in a fucking field reading poetry.”

“Who said anything about dates? You know - if all you want is a quick roll in the hay, I could be of some assistance.”

“You?” Shepard said, eyeing Bull dubiously. He shrugged, taking a swig of his drink. “Aren’t you sleeping with Dorian?”

“Shit. And he wanted to keep it discreet.”

“Then maybe he should be quieter when some people’s tents are right next to his,” she grumbled, still a little bitter over her lack of sleep on the way to Adamant. “He told me it was just casual, but…”

“It is,” Bull said firmly. “And he knows I’ve got a thing for redheads. Say yes and you’ll get to see just how big that thing is.”

Shepard snorted at that altogether _terrible_ line. “I knew romance wasn’t dead.”

“Hey, I thought you didn’t want romance.”

“I don’t,” she agreed. She looked Bull up and down, pondering him for a moment. He was certainly well-built, broad-chested with muscular arms, and the horns were an interesting addition she couldn’t help but be curious about. Plus, judging by the sounds she’d heard Dorian making, he’d know what he was doing with her.

And most importantly, he wasn’t Cullen.

“Fuck it; I’m in,” she said with a decisive nod. “I can’t say I’m not intrigued.” Bull grinned, and Shepard hurried to clarify herself. “But this is _just_ sex. One night, and then afterwards we forget all about it.”

“Deal.”

\---

It took an unholy amount of cajoling for the Inquisitor to approach Josephine, though his hesitance was not without reason; apparently Leliana had been vaguely threatening when they’d spoken last, and Cullen couldn’t blame him for not wanting to invoke their Spymaster’s ire. Still, Cullen and Dorian’s pestering eventually won out, and as their leader took Josephine on his arm Cullen met Shepard’s eye from across the room; she mouthed something he didn’t quite catch, but her animated expression made him smile all the same. 

She was incandescent this evening. He’d once sat under the stars and spoken of beauty with her, but prejudice had blinded him to what was in front of his eyes; now the sights he’d described seemed drab and uninspired next to the vision of her dressed in starlight. Yet she’d seemed unsure, vulnerable even, that shield of bravado dented as she approached a world neither of them were designed for - and she’d let him see what lay underneath, if only for a moment.

He’d meant it when he’d called her perfect. And in his rapture, he’d almost gone further than that.

“Thank the Maker,” Dorian said as he watched Trevelyan. “He was beginning to grow infuriating - almost as much as you.”

“Don’t start, Dorian.”

“I’m not starting anything; in fact I’ve given up entirely on trying to help you out.”

“Good,” Cullen grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at a gaggle of noblewomen who seemed to be edging closer to them.

“But you _could_ —”

“That doesn’t sound like you giving up.”

Dorian sighed. “Fine. Be dour and miserable; I know how you cling to that aesthetic.”

A small voice sounded before Cullen could protest; Cole had appeared next to them, looking surprisingly smart in the same suit as the rest of the Inquisition men. The look was slightly diminished by its hat and the tiny cakes which bulged from its pockets, but at least it was trying. “I’m glad The Shepard likes the silver,” it chirped. “She prefers steel, but soft fits better here.”

“That was you?” Cullen asked, glancing across the room for what was probably the thousandth time that evening, though he was disheartened to find Shepard had vanished; his eyes swept the crowd quickly but there was no sign of her, and he felt his spirits deflate in her absence. 

Cole nodded. “She’s sad tonight. I wanted to help, but your heads are very confusing.”

“Tell me about it,” Dorian muttered darkly.

“Okay,” Cole beamed, taking his sarcasm for an invitation. “She echoes through starlight, bright and burning, shining solitary in the silence. She doesn’t want; she can’t want. But she does, and she doesn’t understand.” Cullen had been attempting to follow its train of thought, but had gotten lost somewhere near ‘solitary’; the spirit ploughed on regardless, turning his attention now to Dorian. “Dorian, what’s a roll in the hay?”

Cullen spluttered at the completely unexpected question; even Dorian seemed taken aback, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he struggled to come up with an explanation for the spirit. “Ah - where did you hear that, Cole?”

“The Shepard and The Iron Bull were talking about it. She thinks it’ll help. He says he’s going to help her have one.”

In that moment, Cullen was sure he forgot how to breathe; his throat tightened, and all the air in his lungs rushed out of him as though Cole had hit him in the chest with a maul. The thought of her with someone else, flushed and naked and _perfect_ , pressed up against another man’s chest as she whispered their name… He braced one hand against the wall behind him as a wave of nausea crashed over his body, the images flashing before him cruel and impossible to suppress, and why did it have to hurt so much? He’d resigned himself to the hopelessness of his plight; wasn’t that enough pain for him to endure?

“You mean… together?” Dorian asked tentatively.

“I think so,” Cole said, unknowingly twisting the knife further. “They left together. Does it have something to do with horses? The Shepard likes horses.” It looked up at Cullen, wide eyes clouding with concern as it took in his posture. “Oh. It’s bad. But I can help; if I tell her—”

“Do _not_ tell her anything,” Cullen warned, because _that_ was the last thing he needed. He took a shaky inhale, fighting to regain his composure as he considered maybe Cole’s revelation was intended to help; maybe it was for the best to see that Shepard was so firmly beyond him, that his free-spirited and kind and beautiful friend would, rightly, rather _roll in the hay_ with a Qunari than waste her time with her broken former captor. Because how, after all she’d seen of him, could she ever view him as anything other than a Templar?

“Are you alright, Cullen?” a soft voice woke him from his reverie; Dorian looked just like Cullen felt, his lips set in a grim line with tension written across his face and, though he’d only ever spoken nonchalantly about his dalliance with Bull, it was suddenly clear he felt more deeply than perhaps either of them had realised. 

“Are _you_ alright?” Cullen asked instead; Dorian smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course, my dear man. I’m surrounded by friends and terrible Southern wine. Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“But— you and The Iron Bull…” he trailed off, but Dorian merely waved a dismissive hand.

“Bull and I have spent a few enjoyable evenings together. If he chooses to spend another one with a different - less cultured and less attractive - partner, that is none of my concern.” He obviously noticed something in Cullen’s face, because he softened slightly. “I jest, of course. Shepard’s a fine woman. I don’t begrudge Bull for doing something about that - especially if no-one else is. Come on, Cole. Let’s put those cakes to good use.”

Dorian put a hand on Cole’s back, gently guiding it out of the room as he tried his very best not to look dejected, and Cullen was suddenly furious with Shepard; whatever Dorian and Bull were, she’d known about it, and she hadn’t cared. If she was looking for intimacy she could’ve chosen any man in Skyhold - but she’d chosen _Bull_ , and upset one of Cullen’s precious few friends in the process. It was typical Shepard, of course; she always acted first and thought later, diving headfirst into situations without a care for the consequences.

And it _hurt_ , but it didn’t matter. Now he knew, beyond all shadow of doubt, that there was no hope for him when it came to Shepard. And now he could move on, and try to forget just how extraordinary she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for this chapter's beautiful artwork goes to the magnificent [machatnoir](http://machatnoir.tumblr.com) (whose artblog you can find [here!](https://chatnoir-art.tumblr.com/)).


	34. Chapter 34

“So, you got anything that’s a hard no?”

Back in Shepard’s quarters, Bull had immediately made himself at home; he lounged on Shepard’s bed as she perched on the edge of her dresser, his formal jacket shed the moment he’d stepped foot in her room. Not that she minded; seeing Bull topless was hardly a rarity, and seeing him in the jacket only reminded her of how much better Cullen looked in it. And the whole point of this was for her to stop thinking about Cullen.

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“We can go as rough or as smooth as you want. I’ve got a load of ties and shit in my room if you’re up for it.”

“Er… yeah, that won’t be necessary,” Shepard said, a little intrigued by the offer although she’d probably need easing into it with Bull. Not that there was going to be any easing in; this was a one-time deal, valid only until the ridiculous emotions she was currently experiencing had been stomped out. “I’m up for most things, though. Just no choking, or anything like that - I don’t like feeling like I can’t breathe,” she said, shuddering as image of the broken first Normandy swam into her mind, the view she’d had as she’d suffocated and died in space. “Maybe I should go on top, now I think about it.”

“I’m not going to crush you, Shep!” Bull guffawed. “But no choking - got it. Wanna pick a safe word?”

Shepard scoffed. “I don’t need a safe word.”

“ _Everyone_ needs a safe word. Mine’s katoh; yours can be lazurite. You gonna join me on this bed, or what?”

“Give me a sec,” Shepard said, hiking up her dress and unbuckling the knives holstered around her ankle and thighs; the weapons clattered to the floor, followed swiftly by her stilettos. “Ready,” she nodded, her insides fluttering as she jumped down from the dresser and stalked over to the bed, and it wasn’t the most pleasant of sensations; it was tinged with apprehension, of a niggling doubt that what she was doing was wrong. She was no stranger to casual sex, either with her own or other species, but it had been a while; since her last fling on the Citadel she’d been in love, been heartbroken, had actually _died_ once. With all of that behind her, the lustre of quick hookups had worn off, and it was a little harder everyday to stay lighthearted and pretend things didn’t matter.

But maybe doing this would make her feel more like herself again.

She settled on the bed next to Bull, laughing softly as one large hand hooked under her thigh and pulled her so she was straddling him. “So,” he asked, thick fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of her dress. “What do you need from me?”

“I thought you’d know that already, _Ben-Hassrath_.”

Bull chuckled. “I do. I know what you like, Shepard. You’re used to being the boss, but here we’ve got Trevelyan as our actual boss, plus Cullen’s got the army covered, so you’re at a loose end. I figure you need to tell me exactly what to do, and exactly how to do it.”

“Fuck,” Shepard muttered, reluctantly acknowledging he was right, even though it made her feel more useless than she already did. Commander Shepard, stuck in the Middle Ages with no ship, no crew and no tech; she might as well be dead. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“You’re gonna be saying that a lot tonight,” he said with a smirk, though it flickered as he inspected her face. “Hey. You alright?”

“Huh?” Shepard said, then nodded viciously as she realised she was losing herself to her thoughts. “Yeah, of course. Let’s do this,” she said decisively, before adding; “fair warning: sometimes I glow blue. But only if you’re doing it right.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge.”

He leaned forward, lips hard and firm as they pressed against hers, though as she moved her mouth in response his yielded slightly. And it was just fine for a kiss; technically very good but largely passionless, a mere formality for what came next rather than enjoyment of the moment. But she let her hands wander as he kissed her, nimble fingers dancing along the muscles of his chest, up his arms and neck, and there was just so _much_ of him, a fact made all the more obvious by the way his large hands splayed across her back. As she reached his head she ran one hand inquisitively over a horn; they were an interesting addition, she’d give him that, but she’d always liked having hair to weave her fingers through. Even when she was with Thane, there was a part of her that missed the feeling of hair slipping between her fingers, something to grasp onto as the night grew more heated; Cullen’s hair was probably good for that, thick and glossy and just begging for his curls to be teased back out—

She jolted as Bull squeezed her arse, suddenly remembering where she was and who she was with. _Fuck_. She really needed to stop thinking about Cullen right now.

She focused her attention back on Bull, kissing him with renewed vigour in the hopes it would pique her interest seeing as she was currently feeling precisely _nothing_. He responded by sliding a hand under her shawl, rough palm grazing over her scarred back; for a fraction of a second she felt him tense, and though he quickly recovered himself it was enough to make her feel altogether terrible about herself. She growled, almost involuntarily, rolling her hips at the same time and drawing a groan from Bull; with one hand his grip on her tightened, fingers digging into her flesh, whilst the other pulled at the straps of her dress.

“You’ve got great tits,” he husked as the fabric pooled at her waist, and for some reason it annoyed Shepard; it sounded like a line, one he’d repeated to the queue of serving girls who still raved about his performance months later, and she hated the thought of being just another one of those nice but largely insignificant women. She couldn’t imagine Cullen saying anything like that; he’d stutter over his compliments and rub the back of his neck, though perhaps in time he’d grow confident, become able to tell or even show her all the things he wanted—

“Shut up,” she said, both to him and her thoughts.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, though her thoughts were nowhere near as compliant.

She growled a second time as she ground against him, realising with a frown she was rubbing against an altogether soft surface; she reached down, grazing him through his trousers, surprised to find him just as unaroused as she was. “Oh,” she said, leaning back to inspect his face; it was unreadable, and she knew he was hiding whatever he was truly feeling from her. “You’re—”

“Just give me a minute,” he said gruffly, pulling her in close once more; her protest was lost as he took her earlobe between his teeth and _tugged_. She sighed softly as he bit down the column of her neck, soothing each nip with a kiss far gentler than she would have expected him, and he was so good at it for a moment she almost forgot he wasn’t—

“ _Cullen_.”

The name slipped from her so subconsciously, so unexpectedly, she didn’t even realise she’d said it until Bull’s head snapped back to face her; she gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, wincing as she desperately clutched for some way to explain her mistake away.

“Did you just call me…?”

“No,” she said, the word muffled by her fingers.

“Yes you did.” His eyes - or rather, _eye_ \- widened in glee, and she briefly considered whether murder was her best option for escaping the situation. “Shit. Oh, _shit_ ; you’re in love with Cullen.”

Every inch of her body flushed bright red at Bull’s casual use of that word; she pushed away from him, standing and pulling her dress up to cover herself once more. “I am _not_ in— in _that_ , I— fuck off!”

“Yes you are; that’s why you came back here with me! So many things make sense now!” 

The room suddenly felt far too hot, her heart thundering and sweat prickling at the base of her neck as she began to pace the room, and she knew what was rearing its head; she took a deep breath to steady herself, and then another one, forcing herself to think rationally as her body struggled against her. She was fairly certain she was about to die from mortification, and it was all _fucking_ Cullen’s fault. In the space of an hour she’d lost a friend and gained a ridiculous crush, all because he had the audacity to keep smiling at her, and where had that grumpy ex-Templar who refused to laugh at her jokes disappeared to? Why did he have to collude with her now; when did he start being so much _fun_?

“Shep, sit down. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

Glaring at Bull, somehow, helped hold back the crest of her panic, his smug expression just enough to distract her from the looming wave of helplessness. “I am not in… _that_ ,” she repeated, still unable to say the word. “I just— I had a brief moment of madness, because— why did Josephine put him in that uniform? It shouldn’t be allowed. He shouldn’t be allowed to look like that. That’s all it is.”

The words spilled from her in a violent torrent and she knew as she spoke them they were a lie, because it wasn’t the outfit; it was just _him_. Bull knew it too, and he shot her a sympathetic look as he pushed up off the bed. “Okay; let’s forget I said the L word because… yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her. “But you care, Shep. You spend all your time with him, you talk about him constantly— I mean, shit; you spent a night _tending_ to him when he was sick.”

“Wha— I— how do you even _know_ that?”

“Come on. Ben-Hassrath; give me some credit.”

With a shaky exhale the embers of her anxiety began to dissipate, no longer able to avoid the truth Bull had laid out for her. How had she let this creep up on her? How had she managed to fall for her closest friend without even realising it; how had she become hopelessly attached to a man she had nothing to offer? And why did she _want_ , for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, something which she knew she could never have?

“Oh,” she whispered, and then louder; “oh, _no_.”

“Yeah.” Bull reached out and squeezed her shoulder; with an emphatic groan she scrunched her eyes closed, leaning forward to bang her head against his chest. And then she did it a second time for good measure, because maybe it would knock some sense into her. “So. I guess we’re not happening,” he said, his hand settling on her back now and patting once in sympathy.

“What do you care?” she grumbled into his chest. “You couldn’t even get it up.”

“I was getting there,” Bull bristled. “Never knew my conscience was such a cockblock.”

“Your conscience?” she echoed, pushing back to frown at him; he looked decidedly shifty, and with a jolt she realised he was no better than her. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

“Hey, don’t judge me. You’re doing the same thing.”

“No I’m not; I’m sad, you’re just being greedy! Plus you said you and Dorian aren’t even—”

“We’re _not_ ,” he insisted, shaking his head. “But… shit; I think I want to be.” He rubbed his palm over his forehead. “Getting over him by getting under you was a stupid idea. But I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Just go and _tell_ him, you idiot!”

Bull crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back to glare at her. “Great idea, Shep. The Magisterium will love it; local Vint brings home Qunari. Whilst I’m at it, why don’t you just go and _tell_ Cullen?” She flushed again, her gaze dropping to the floor, and Bull let out a humourless laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“It’s different,” Shepard muttered. “You want— _that_. I don’t. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

In truth there was a plethora of reasons, and she couldn’t bear trudging through them all. He wouldn’t understand them anyway, because he didn’t know her, not really; to him she was just _Shep_ , a decent fighter but no-one really of note. He didn’t see her as the hero; he didn’t know of the bodies which lay in her wake. He didn’t realise that Commander Shepard had been destined for greatness once, nor that it was her lot in life to walk that path alone.

But she didn’t tell him that; instead she merely shrugged, her eyes still focused on the floor. “Because it hurt too much the last time.”

“I get it,” Bull muttered. “But it could work, you know. You and him.”

“Bull, don’t,” she warned, shaking her head and forcing herself to look up at him once more. “It doesn’t matter; I’ll get over it. I’ll have to.” She attempted a smile, and though she knew it was weak she had to _try_ ; she’d been wallowing in self-pity for half the evening, and it was long enough. “You should go talk to Dorian, though. If you want him, you might as well give it a shot.”

“I’ll consider it.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and he held his hands up in surrender. “Fine; I’ll talk to him. But… tomorrow.”

She sighed, but figuring it was better than nothing she didn’t push it. “Do _not_ tell him what I said, though. He and Cullen are way too close; he’ll only go blabbing.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He winked at her - at least she assumed it was a wink, but it was hard to tell with an eyepatch. “Come find me by the Rest tomorrow; I’ll teach you how to use a maul. There’s nothing like beating the shit out of a training dummy to work out sexual frustration.”

She surprised herself by actually laughing at that, a hoarse chuckle that made her feel ever so slightly better. “Thanks, Bull. You’re a good friend.” He winked again, picking up his jacket from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. “By the way - lazurite?”

“Yeah, you know. Tough, blue.”

“And got brought back from the dead once.”

“What?”

“What?” she replied immediately, smiling slightly at his look of bewilderment. “Don’t worry about it. Go work on your speech for the Vint.”

“Whatever you say, Shep,” he shrugged, giving her a companionable punch on the shoulder before making his way out of the room. “Don’t stay up too late thinking about your pretty Templar.”

He closed the door behind him, and she flopped down on her bed, letting out a low groan as she pulled a pillow over her head. And it was probably for the best she and Bull had come to their senses, but it had done nothing to settle that longing inside her; if anything their talk had only made it worse, stoking the burgeoning flames of hope she desperately needed to suppress.

Maybe sleep would help, she thought in vain. Maybe she’d wake up in the morning and be recovered from this bout of insanity. 

\---

_Commander Cullen,_

_It took a fair bit of digging, but we found the armour you were looking for. The greaves weren’t salvageable, but the chestpiece and gauntlets are mostly intact. I’ve sent them on for you - I’m sure your blacksmith will be able to hammer out the dents._

_Guard-Captain Aveline_

Cullen glowered down at the letter and the accompanying package, half-tempted to throw the whole blighted lot off the battlements. Petitioning Aveline to locate Shepard’s old armour had been a dubious endeavour from the start, but after last night it now felt thoroughly idiotic. What had he even been thinking? That he would present it to her and she would immediately jump into his arms? She’d already jumped into someone else’s arms - _bed_ , to be more accurate - and was probably still there, too wrapped up in Bull to remember _they_ were supposed to be meeting this morning. Not that he would be making that meeting either; he’d already informed Josephine he would no longer be participating in her lessons, and no amount of pestering or guilt-tripping from either her or Shepard could make him change his mind.

A knock on his door made him jump, and he hastily covered the package over with a wad of neglected paperwork as the person entered without waiting for a response. “I did not say you could—”

“But when has that stopped me before?”

Of _course_ it was her. Hand braced on his door, fresh-faced and smiling softly, she looked so pretty it made him want to scream, because it was exceptionally hard to stay angry at her when she smiled at him like _that_. He was still going to try, though. “Care for a dance?” Shepard asked, closing the door as she stepped into his office; he glowered again, staring down at his paperwork without really seeing it.

“I am not going. I have too much work to do and I refuse to waste another second of my time on an utterly useless skill - today or ever.”

“This again,” she tutted as she sidled up to his desk. “Come on - it’s fun.”

“ _Fun_ will not help us defeat Corypheus,” he bit out, adding before he could restrain himself; “but if you are looking for someone to have _fun_ with, might I suggest The Iron Bull?”

“Excuse me?”

He looked up at her again, narrowing his eyes. “You heard me.”

The smile fell from Shepard’s face as a faint blush crept up her chest and neck. “That son of a— look, Cullen; whatever Bull said to you—”

“Bull said nothing. Cole, however, left very little to the imagination when he announced your— your _liaison_ in front of Dorian.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Shepard winced, running a hand through her hair. “Dorian knows.”

“Yes, and he was devastated. Excellent work, Shepard.”

“No, but— but this is good!” Shepard said, beginning to pace his office. “Because if Dorian was upset that means he cares, so he and Bull can just… run off into the sunset together. Go scandalise Tevinter.”

“Yes, that might have worked - before you…” he paused, casting around for the correct word. “ _Interfered_.”

She stopped pacing and turned towards him with a frown. “Are you angry with me?”

“What was your first clue?”

“The fact that you look like you want to throttle me.” She sighed, ruffling her hair once more. “I didn’t realise Dorian felt like that; they both said it wasn’t a thing—”

“And did you believe that? Truly? Or did you just choose to believe it because it was convenient?” He pushed up from his desk and rounded it to confront her. “I cannot believe you would be so thoughtless, self-centred—”

“Don’t yell at me, Rutherford!” she shot back. “It’s none of your business!”

“It absolutely is - Dorian is my friend, and you hurt him!”

“You could at least hear me out - I’m supposed to be your friend too!”

He grit his teeth, folding his arms across his chest. “Not today.”

With a sharp exhale of air her entire countenance crumpled; she looked so thoroughly defeated, eyes shining with reproach, that for a brief second he hated himself for being so hard on her. “Fine,” she said quietly. “Good. It _is_ good, actually, because I’d briefly forgotten that you’re a complete fucking idiot—”

“At least I’m not a harlot!” he shot back without thinking, knowing the instant he said the word that he’d gone too far; Shepard flinched as though he’d hit her, and he too winced at the cruel injury. “Forgive me, that was—”

“You can’t say something horrible and then just say _forgive me_ , like that makes everything alright!” she snapped, suddenly furious, and he was ever so slightly scared; her brown eyes were now tinged with blue as she glared up at him, the very air around her vibrating with coiled energy. “I know that’s your favourite thing to do, like how you say you’re sorry about Kirkwall but don’t do anything to actually show it—”

“Wha— why do you think I’m here?!”

“Well it’s not to help mages, seeing as you wanted to recruit the Templars back at Haven! Which is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard, by the way—”

“Templars are trained to combat magic; the Breach is comprised of uncontrolled magic! I fail to see how that suggestion is unreasonable!” He took a deep breath, trying and failing to get a handle on his anger. “And you are just trying to change the subject; you don’t want to face the fact that your actions have consequences!”

“How _dare_ you!” she screeched, her biotics sparking at her fingertips now; she balled her hands into fists as she took another step closer to him. “I am perfectly aware that my actions have consequences. Don’t talk to me about _fucking_ consequences; you can’t even begin to comprehend the consequences I’ve had to—”

“Then you clearly just don’t care.”

Shepard went very silent at that, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry, her jaw tightening and eyes screwing shut. But when she opened them again they were dry, and brown once more, and when she spoke it was with such deadly calm that it sent a shiver down his spine.

“If you _ever_ say something like that to me again, it will be the last thing you say.”

It suddenly occurred to him they were far too close, only an inch between them as they stared each other down, both flushed and breathing heavily in the wake of their argument; against all rational thought his eyes darted to her lips, the wildly inappropriate image of him pinning her against his desk and _taking_ her flashing through his mind. And for a moment he could’ve sworn her eyes did the same, her gaze dropping to his scar for a fraction of a second; he wasn’t sure whether he should take a step back or lean in but surely he had to do _something_ —

The door of his office crashed open, and he almost jumped out of his skin; with a growl he swivelled to face the intruder, ready to send whichever hapless recruit had interrupted to the Hissing Wastes for six months. But it was Dorian rather than one of his men, face pale and with a palpable anxiety; he opened his mouth to speak, but faltered as his eyes flickered to Shepard.

“Dorian,” Shepard began, taking a step towards him. “I don’t know what Cole said, but—”

“Not now,” he cut her off, turning to face Cullen. “Trevelyan’s been in Judgment this morning. Something to put on a show for the Orlesians. But Erimond said— he accused…” he trailed off with a groan, his gaze landing on Shepard once more. “That Liara has been working for Corypheus.”

“ _What_?” Shepard yelped. “That little bastard; please tell me Trevelyan doesn’t believe him!”

“They’re searching her quarters now; you should get down there before chaos breaks loose.” He said it to Cullen, but Shepard was the first to move; Dorian grabbed her elbow as she attempted to rush past him. “I do not think you should—”

“Get _off_ me,” she grunted, shaking him loose and storming through the doorway.

“Any overreaction on your part is just going to make this worse!” Dorian called after her, but she was already halfway along the battlements, and he exchanged an exasperated look with Cullen before both running after her.

Though many of their guests had left Skyhold by early carriage that morning, a number still remained, and pushing past them as they buzzed about the drama which had unfolded proved to be a more difficult task than Cullen had anticipated. Shepard had evidently found the same, as by the time she arrived at Liara’s room she was only a few feet in front of them; they barrelled into Liara’s quarters to find several scouts ransacking it, books and clothes strewn across the floor, as Trevelyan and Leliana watched on solemnly. Two of his own men flanked Liara, a hand on each arm, though she didn’t look ready to run or attack; instead she just looked resigned, her face contorted in sorrow, blue eyes sparkling as they met Shepard’s.

“Shepard—”

Shepard actually _growled_ as she stormed forward, wrenching one hand from Liara’s arm; too hard evidently, because the soldier whimpered and the other reached for his sword in response. Cullen’s reaction was instinctual, rationality lost at the sight of a weapon raised against an unarmed Shepard; with a hand on her shoulder he pulled her backwards, placing his body between her and the recruit.

“ _Never_ raise your weapon against a member of the Inquisition.”

The soldier flushed, immediately sheathing his sword and offering him an awkward salute as he looked determinedly down at the ground. “I don’t need protection,” Shepard ground out, still trying to push past Cullen to Liara. “Least of all from _you_.”

“ _Maker_ , Shepard,” Cullen barked, rounding on her now, because he was trying to _help_ and she was still being the stubbornest person in all existence. “Why can you never just—”

“Enough!”

It was Leliana who spoke, her hard voice cutting above the fray; they all turned to look at her as she stepped towards Liara, a handful of letters in her grasp. “Liara,” she began, voice surprisingly steady despite the fury which seemed to radiate from her. “Do you care to explain why you have letters from red lyrium smugglers in your possession?”

“I found them,” Liara said, her eyes focused desperately on Shepard. “In the Emerald Graves.” Leliana wordlessly handed the papers to Cullen; he quickly scanned their contents, his frown deepening with every line.

“They mention you by name.”

“I can explain.” She spoke not to Cullen but to Shepard, who had suddenly gone very still. “When the Venatori brought me to Corypheus I thought he was going to kill me, but — but he offered me access to his research. Anything that could help us find a route home.”

“In exchange for your help,” Leliana surmised.

“Yes,” Liara grimaced. “Not anything big, just— help with mining equipment, archaeological techniques to stabilise a dig—” 

“You helped him mine red lyrium?!” Shepard shouted, and Liara winced at her tone. And if she hadn’t been such a good friend to Shepard, he too might have lost his temper in that moment; he grit his teeth together to stop himself from screaming at her as anger bubbled in his chest, his mind flashing to the swarm of Red Templars who’d descended on Haven. He’d once called them brothers, _friends_ , but now they were mere shades of themselves, corrupted and twisted and lost - because of Samson, and because of _her_. 

Had things gone differently, he might have even been one of them.

“I didn’t see an alternative!” Liara shot back, tilting her chin up defiantly. “How is it any different to when you worked with Cerberus?”

“I worked with Cerberus to stop the Collectors!” Shepard yelped, looking so incensed by her comment that Cullen’s soldiers took a step backwards. “You want to get back home just so you can… what; so you can get back on the Extranet? So you can—”

“So I don’t have to be called a demon at every turn!” Liara yelled, tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “Four years in this place has been intolerable. How can you expect me to live out a thousand here?”

Shepard groaned, placing her head in her hands. “What I don’t understand,” Cullen began, striving with all his might to keep his voice calm, “is why you were fighting Wardens when I found you.”

“Because mining dangerous material is one thing, but I couldn’t sit by and watch a demon army rampage through Thedas - no matter how much I hate it here.” Liara sighed, shaking her head sadly. “And I knew by that point Shepard was working for the Inquisition. I persuaded Erimond to let me accompany him to Adamant, because I thought - hoped - I might find her there with you. But Erimond never trusted me; he ordered the Wardens to kill me the moment I gave him the slip.”

“Did you know about any of this, Shepard?” Trevelyan spoke for the first time; he seemed painfully sombre, scrubbing at his beard as he looked imploringly at Shepard.

“She didn’t know anything,” Liara said quickly.

“I am inclined to believe Shepard is not involved,” Leliana said, surprising Cullen in her support. “But we should still be cautious. I suggest placing them both in our cells until—”

“I do not see the need for Shepard to be placed under arrest,” Cullen cut in, defending her despite their argument - because even though he was still furious with her, he couldn’t bear the thought of her imprisoned again.

“Of course _you_ don’t,” Leliana scoffed, and he felt himself blush at the insinuation in her tone.

“Nor do I,” Trevelyan agreed, silent for only a moment before beginning to address their soldiers. “Take Liara down to the cells - _temporarily_ ,” he added as Shepard started to protest, “until I’ve figured out what to do about this. Shepard, just… just don’t make this worse than it already is. Please.”

Liara avoided all of their gazes as she was led from the room, and Cullen turned towards Shepard, wanting to say _something_ to reassure her though he knew he was the last person she wished to hear from right now; she pushed past him however, instead moving to square up to the Inquisitor.

“Think very carefully about what you do next, Trevelyan,” Shepard warned, the threat in her voice causing the blood to drain from the Inquisitor’s face. “I might not be working for Corypheus, but that won’t stop me from bashing your head in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this isn't angsty enough for you currently I've also started writing a [Tranquil!Shep AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012571/chapters/32269719). Plus I've made a [masterpost of my prompts and drabbles for these two](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/172214837045/writing-masterpost) over on tumblr - there’s fluff there, I promise!


	35. Chapter 35

Shepard did not linger in Liara’s quarters; as soon as her friend was taken away she pushed past Trevelyan and Cullen, deliberately bashing them both with her elbows as she did, storming off in the direction of the Herald’s Rest before either of them could say another word. She didn’t need to go inside to find her target; Bull was at the sparring ring, watching on as Krem and Grim fought each other. 

“You okay, Shep?” he asked as she stomped towards him.

“Absolutely fucking peachy. Still up for teaching me how to use a maul?” He nodded. “Good. Let’s beat the shit out of something.”

He looked as though he wanted to ask her another question, but seemed to think better of it; with a shrug he picked up his war hammer and nodded towards the nearby training dummies. He handed the weapon to Shepard as she squared up against the straw figure, manoeuvring her into the correct stance with firm hands on her shoulders.

“The thing to remember about using a maul is—shit, _wait_!” he called out, grabbing hold of the war hammer as she raised it over her head to strike. “You can’t use it like that; you’ll crack your skull open. Here - swing it up over your shoulder,” he instructed as he repositioned her arms.

“I’ll use it how I _want_ ,” she grumbled, raising the weapon as before and striking out at the dummy; the blow left a sizable dent in the mannequin’s head, and her lips twisted into a grimace of satisfaction.

If she stuck some straw to its head, she could probably pretend it was Cullen.

“Shepard,” Bull said firmly, wrenching the maul from her grip as she went to lift it once more and fixing her with a hard stare. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just my two closest friends have turned out to be complete fucking _tools_ , so now you have to be my best friend. Sorry.”

“What’s happened?” he asked, adding more quietly; “did you speak to Cullen?”

“Cullen can go fuck himself,” Shepard spat as she reached for the war hammer once more, though Bull continued to hold it out of her reach. “Because I won’t be fucking him anytime soon.”

“Wait— did he turn you down?”

“No, I didn’t ask— _that_. He’s refusing to go to dance lessons, and when I went to try and talk him round he started screaming at me. Cole told him and Dorian about us, and he lost his shit about it. Although good news: Dorian is wildly in love with you too, apparently.”

Shepard hadn’t been aware that it was possible for Qunari to go pale, but in that moment all the colour seemed to drain from Bull’s face. “Dorian knows?” he asked grimly, and Shepard nodded. “ _Shit_. I was gonna tell him, but now it seems like…” he groaned, scrubbing his forehead with his free hand; she used his distraction to her advantage, grabbing his weapon once more. “What did Cullen say?”

“Let’s see,” she began, readying her war hammer. “He said I didn’t care about anything,” she struck the mannequin in the stomach; “he called me self-centred,” she landed another blow to the head; “he called me a slut—”

“No he didn’t.”

“He said harlot; that’s Repressed Templar for slut. And I refuse to be shamed for being open about my sexual needs—”

“Maybe he’s jealous.”

Shepard scoffed, giving the training dummy another almighty whack; the post shook with the force of her hit but remained wedged in the ground. “Doubt it. Whatever; I don’t care. It’s put the nail firmly in that coffin, and I can go back to just being mildly annoyed by him. He’s really the least of my worries anyway, what with Liara conspiring with Corypheus.”

Actually voicing the words made them a hundred times worse, because not only had Liara lied to her but Shepard hadn’t seen it; she’d known _something_ was wrong but, instead of finding out what, she’d spent her time dancing and gadding about the Emerald Graves and unknowingly falling for Cullen. Because she _had_ fallen for him; when she’d woken that morning, before self-regulation had kicked in, her first thought had been of him - and she’d realised her first thoughts had been of him for some time. And regardless of what she told Bull, one argument didn’t change the fact she was— _well_. Not in love; she categorically refused to let it be love. But she was certainly in something.

Hell, probably.

With a growl she summoned up a mass effect field and, focusing all her energy on her maul, lashed out at the mannequin once more; the combination of metal and biotics cracked the wooden post in two, sending the dummy crashing into the wall next to them. Spurred on by the adrenaline and rage in her veins, she followed it, raising her maul over her head exactly as Bull had told her not to and hammering it three more times. As she lifted the maul for a fourth swing she felt her arms buckle as her biotics faded; she braced herself for her inevitable injury but Bull was beside her in an instant, catching the weapon and prying it from her grasp.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she looked down at the mangled mannequin, guilt and embarrassment prickling up her neck; she folded her arms across her chest and angled herself away from Bull, unsure how to explain to him why losing her temper made her feel so ashamed of herself.

“You really should’ve let me teach you; you won’t be able to move your arms tomorrow.” He sighed, planting a commiserative hand on her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Liara hasn’t been working with Corypheus since joining the Inquisition.”

Shepard’s head snapped towards him, eyes narrowing. “You knew?”

“Not for certain, but - she’s kinda shifty, Shep. I’ve had my eye on her.” He dropped his hand from her shoulder. “What’s gonna happen to her?”

“Whatever the mighty Lord Trevelyan deigns to happen, I guess,” she shrugged. “Exile, maybe. Hopefully not execution.” Exile she could cope with; they could return to life on the run, retreat to Tevinter for a few years whilst the Inquisition sorted out the hole in the sky. But execution… she had no problem fighting to her own death on Liara’s behalf, but how could she battle against those she’d come to consider her friends? How could she strike down Trevelyan, or Cassandra, or Cullen? “Either way, I’ll be gone soon,” she mumbled, scuffing the ground with the toe of her boot. “What a fucking mess.”

“It’s about to get messier,” Bull said, indicating over Shepard’s shoulder. “Dorian.”

“Ah, fuck,” she muttered, turning to see the man in question approaching them from across the courtyard. “If he starts casting, I’m using you as a shield.”

“You two are at it again, I see,” Dorian said, voice curt and eyes flashing in clear disapproval of them both. “Shepard, I am here to inform you that the Inquisitor wishes to speak with you.”

“Is that all?” Bull smirked, swinging his maul over his shoulder. “Didn’t come to watch me wielding my huge weapon?”

Shepard groaned as she put her head in her hands, suspecting Bull’s heavy-handed flirting was the _worst_ possible way to win Dorian round. “On the contrary; I’d rather not look at either of you right now,” he replied sharply. “Alas, I was out-stubborned by Cullen for the honour. Trevelyan is in the War Room; I’ll be going now.”

“Dorian, wait,” Shepard called as he began to leave; he stopped, but didn’t turn back to her. “Whatever Cole said, nothing actually happened.” He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the pair of them. “I mean, nothing much; we kissed a bit and he got a brief look at the girls—”

“I don’t need to know.”

“No, you do, because Bull wasn’t into it at all. He was way too distracted by you to even - ah - _make an appearance_.”

“Yeah, and she was wishing she was somewhere else entirely.”

“Anywhere else, really. But it was my terrible idea, and I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Bull frowned.

“Yes, it _was_ ,” she replied, emphatically raising her eyebrows, but Bull ignored her and took a step towards Dorian.

“No. Look, Dorian - yeah, I asked Shep if she wanted to ride the Bull, but only because…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “Well, because of you.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up so fast Shepard was surprised they didn’t come clean off of his head, looking beyond affronted by Bull’s explanation. “I fail to see how I am in any way responsible for _this_.”

“Because I _like_ you. And it’s weird and I don’t get it, but there it is. I like you, as more than just— whatever we are.”

His declaration was almost romantic, and Dorian visibly softened at the words, his stern expression fading though he valiantly fought to keep it. “That doesn’t quite explain why you two—”

“Because I’m stupid. And because I thought I was just a novelty to you.”

“That certainly is stupid,” Dorian mumbled, though there was a faint smile on his lips now. “Perhaps we should go—”

“Kiss?” Shepard suggested hopefully, raising her hands in surrender when they both glared at her.

“ _Talk_ ,” Dorian corrected. “Without you there to try and sleep with one of us.”

Figuring she probably deserved far worse than that snide remark, she said nothing, instead turning her attention back to Bull’s war hammer; he held it up out of her reach, ignoring her noise of protest as she tried and failed to make a grab for it.

“I’m not giving you this without supervision.”

“But—”

“Another time, Shep,” he said firmly, slinging it over his shoulder as he indicated towards Skyhold’s garden; he headed off with Dorian in that direction, and though they weren’t skipping nor holding hands it was certainly promising. She turned back towards her battered training dummy; the inclination to pulverise an inanimate object was quickly slipping away, anger now ceding to melancholy, but she gave it a swift kick nonetheless. There was nothing else to do but petition Trevelyan for Liara’s safety; despite how intolerable _begging_ him sounded, it was probably better to be polite than threatening him with violence. 

It was best not to think about what might happen if he refused to be lenient. Because, one way or another, it would mean losing Cullen for good.

\---

The hastily-organised war meeting was rife with tension and upset, and at the end each one of them left the War Room discontented. Cullen would have rather stayed to act as a buffer between Shepard and Trevelyan, knowing her usual glibness and disdain for authority figures would only worsen the situation; the Inquisitor however was keen to speak to her alone, ushering his advisers from the room with none of them any the wiser as to what his decision would be. He hadn’t seemed content with any of the options presented to him, shying away from execution and interrogation yet keen to make some sort of an example of her; the likelihood, Cullen feared, was that he would exile her, which would mean…

Which would mean losing Shepard. Again.

And he knew Shepard should be the least of his concerns right now, yet his anger towards her clashed furiously in his chest with an anxiety which bordered on incontrollable. For there was no doubt in his mind that if Liara went, Shepard would follow; the Asari had been her priority from the day he’d met her, a bond that neither the Gallows nor Corypheus could break. The thought of an Inquisition without Shepard - a Skyhold hollow and quiet and _empty_ \- was almost too much for him to bear, and for a wild moment he considered going with her; where her exile would take them wouldn’t matter, so long as he was by her side. But even if he hadn’t pledged himself to the Inquisition, she still wouldn’t want him in any capacity - not after the heated words brought forth by his anger and hurt. 

He deliberated over his options late into the evening, pushing aside his duties to focus on some way of keeping both Liara and Shepard within the Inquisition, his ideas growing more tenuous with every passing minute. No doubt Shepard already had the perfect escape plan if the Judgement went poorly, he thought darkly to himself; she’d probably already—

Cullen’s eyes widened as he realised he knew _exactly_ what she was going to do, because he knew her far too well.

“ _Shit_.” 

He pushed up from his desk and out of his tower, racing across the moonlit fort towards their cells, stomach sinking at the conspicuously unguarded doorway into the prison. He barrelled inside, relieved to find his guards not dead and merely disgruntled, the pair of them battling fruitlessly against thick ropes as an armoured Shepard thrust key after key into Liara’s cell door; she looked up at the sound of Cullen’s approach, rolling her eyes at the sight of him.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.” 

“Give me the keys,” he told her.

“No,” she said, turning her attention back to the lock.

“Commander!” one of the guards called out. “She jumped us— she’s working for Corypheus—”

“Do you really think you’d still be alive if she worked for Corypheus?” Liara scoffed. “Shepard, try that brass one—”

“Shepard, do _not_ —” He took a step forward and she immediately tensed, dropping the ring of keys as she reached for the daggers on her back; she seemed to regret the movement mid-action, hands balling into fists as she winced - and he understood the response, because seeing her move to arm herself against him made his heart wrench. “ _Please_ ,” he tried again, softer now as she scrabbled with her keys once more. “Just talk to me. What did the Inquisitor say?”

The despair written across her features immediately shifted to scorn as she jabbed another key - unsuccessfully - at the lock. “Trevelyan’s head is so far up his ass he couldn’t hear a word I was saying,” she snarled. “I can’t trust him to do the right thing by Liara, so now I have to do _this_.”

He wasn’t altogether surprised by the result of her meeting with their leader - it was the impression he’d gotten too, after all - but it still made his gut twist with apprehension. “Let me talk to him again,” he urged. “I’ll convince him to see sense.”

She paused in fumbling with the lock to frown up at him. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, I…” he began, but faltered as words failed him. Because how didn’t she _know_ already? How could she not see he would gladly do _anything_ for her, just for the honour of having her near him? How did she not realise she was the most important person in all of Thedas to him; that he was irrevocably, _madly_ in love with her, and that his heated words earlier had been based on little more than blind jealousy?

Because that was it. Because _I love you_ was the response he wanted to give, the word sudden and terrifying and completely foreign to him; because beyond lust and attraction every fibre of his being screamed simply for _her_. Because she was the best thing that had ever happened to him - even if she would never feel the same.

“Because I owe you,” was what he settled on, fearing anything further would alienate her for good.

Yet it seemed like entirely the wrong thing to say; her face fell, a mask of anger quickly thrown on top of the pain she’d been too slow to conceal. “Then don’t bother,” she said as her attention returned to Liara. “I’ll fix this myself.”

“But—”

“ _No_ ,” she forced out, slamming one fist against the bars of the cell. “If the only reason you want to help is— is _obligation_ , then I don’t want your help. I thought by now you’d—” she cut herself off with a sharp exhale of breath, glaring down at the lock. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” Finally, she found the correct key, the cell door making a loud _clunk_ before creaking open. “Come on, Liara; let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Liara stepped out of her cell, the glare she threw him nothing compared to the sorrow in Shepard’s eyes, and his heart hammered ferociously at the overwhelming and imminent danger of her leaving; he opened his mouth to protest but no sounds came out, words eluding him when he needed them most. She shook her head sadly as he floundered, as he _failed_ , and if words weren’t going to work he’d have to act; as she began to move he did too, backing up until he stood in front of the prison’s only exit, hands on his hips as he barred her escape.

“If you try and leave here with her, you’ll have to go through me.”

“ _Cullen_!” Shepard exclaimed, sounding so gut-wrenchingly _wounded_ he almost stepped aside right then. “Are you honestly going to fight me?!”

“No, I am not going to fight you. I am just going to— stand in your way,” he said, nodding to himself in an effort to make it feel more resolute. “But you will have to fight _me_ if you wish to get past.”

“Can I remind you the last time we had a standoff like this, you actually _stabbed me_? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t return the favour.”

“Because you are a far better person than I am.”

That response came immediately, the words rolling off his tongue before he’d even thought them; they made Shepard soften, the tension in her body ebbing even as her brow puckered in confusion. “That’s not true,” she said, her denial so sincere and so baffling to him; how could she honestly believe, after all she’d seen of him in Kirkwall, that she could possibly be less _good_ than him?

“Don’t let him manipulate you like that!” Liara said as Shepard hesitated, glaring at him once more. “I’ll make him move if you won’t—”

“Don’t—”

Shepard’s protest was cut off by a flash of blue as Liara’s biotics flared; Cullen was struck with them before he could move for his shield, stomach lurching violently as he was lifted from his feet and thrown into the adjacent wall. He clattered head-first into hard stone before crumpling to the floor, white-bright pain bursting forth from the top of his skull. 

“ _Cullen_!”

It was probably Shepard calling his name, but he couldn’t quite be sure with his head pounding so viciously, vision swimming in and out of focus as he struggled to push himself onto his hands and knees. “Cullen,” he heard again, and then she was beside him, blurry face full of concern as she scanned him for injuries. “Cullen; can you hear me?”

He nodded, though he immediately regretted it, his head spinning with even that small movement. He screwed his eyes shut as he fought the urge to vomit, and the next thing he felt were her hands on him; in any other situation, the tenderness with which she cupped his cheek and raked her fingers through his hair would have set his skin on fire, but right now he was too preoccupied by trying not to empty his stomach contents on her.

“See, he’s fine; come on—”

“He’s got a fucking head injury!”

“I didn’t even Throw him that hard!”

Her fingers were dancing down his neck now, pressing at each vertebrae for any signs of injury. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and when he did she was painfully close; close enough to count every freckle across the bridge of her nose, so near that with only a tilt of his head he’d be able to brush a much longed-for kiss to her temple. But even if he had the courage, doing so under Liara’s piercing gaze would probably get him killed; instead he reached up, catching one of her hands in his and holding it tightly.

“Please stay,” he mumbled. “Please. I’ll find a way to make sure Liara is safe; I promise.”

She shook her head, pulling away from him with a frown. “I don’t know what you think you _owe_ me, but—”

“Maker’s breath, woman; I just do not want to lose you,” he snapped before he could stop himself, wincing as he heard the words; she groaned, whacking him on the shoulder and nearly sending him off-balance.

“I don’t want to lose you either, you idiot!”

He let out a choked sob of a laugh at her look of mingled exasperation and relief. “Then trust me,” he told her. “I will— I’ll ensure Trevelyan makes the right decision.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

He shot a quick glance over at his bound soldiers, who were watching the proceedings intently; he lowered his voice to barely a whisper before offering all he could to her. “Then I will orchestrate Liara’s escape myself.”

She considered him for a long moment, his vision returning to focus by inches as she fixed him with a deep, searching expression. “Alright,” she nodded, hooking her hands under his armpits and hoisting him to his feet; he staggered slightly as he stood without support, injured head still thrumming.

“Shepard, we have to go,” Liara urged, anxiety rolling off of her as she bounced on the balls of her feet by the door, desperate to run but unwilling to do so without her friend; Shepard shook her head and she immediately stilled, the tension in her crumpling to defeat. “ _Shepard_ …”

“It’s fine. He’s going to help.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Well, I do,” Shepard said firmly, folding her arms across her chest. “And when have I ever been wrong before?”

“Plenty of times!” Liara exclaimed. “This is just because you want to stay in the Inquisition.”

“Yes, it is!” Shepard shot back, then took a deep breath to calm herself. “And you know as well as I do that life here is better than life on the run. But if you can’t trust him, trust me.”

That invocation of trust was all it took for Liara to relent, though it seemed as though it was against her better judgement. “Fine,” she sighed. “But if he turns out to be lying—”

“Then you have my permission to give him worse than a head injury,” Shepard agreed. “Hell, I’ll probably join you. But for now you have to…” she trailed off, indicating sheepishly to the open cell door. Liara groaned in frustration but acquiesced, stomping back over to the cell and pulling the door shut behind her so forcefully the whole prison seemed to shake. “It won’t be for long,” Shepard told her as she turned the key in the lock. “A day or two, tops. Trevelyan will want it over with before we head to the Winter Palace.”

“He’d better,” Liara muttered darkly as Cullen turned his attention to his still-bound guards; they jumped to their feet as he untied them, reaching for their weapons, but he raised a hand for them to halt. 

“I will inform the Inquisitor of what has happened here,” he told them. “There is no need for you to take any further action. Shepard - say sorry.”

“Fuck off.”

“ _Shepard_ ,” he warned her, and she threw her hands up in the air.

“Fine; I’m _sorry_ you’re too incompetent to—”

“ _No_.”

“ _Ugh_. I’m sorry if I hurt either of you - which I purposefully _didn’t_ \- but I’m sorry if I bruised your pride.” She arched an eyebrow at Cullen. “Happy?”

“No, but I suppose it’ll have to do. Let’s go.”

She said her goodbyes to Liara before they stepped out into the cool night air, the silence between them uncomfortable as he tried desperately to think of something - anything - to say. “So,” Shepard spoke first. “So much for not being my friend today.”

“Yes, well… I am sorry for what I said before,” he told her, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at his feet. “It was inexcusable. I was just… upset. For Dorian.”

She didn’t reply right away, so he chanced a look up at her; she looked impossibly sad as she stared off into the distance, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, and he would have given anything to take that look away if only he knew _how_. “I care,” she said quietly. “You said I didn’t care about the consequences of my actions. The things I’ve done— I care. They’re awful things, and— and I know I pretend like nothing matters, but I need you to know that they _did_ matter to me.”

She’d never spoken to him like this before; she’d spoken of her past, and of the war she still fought some nights, but never with as much shame as she did now. “What could you have possibly done that you think is so terrible?” he couldn’t help but ask; she shook her head, still not looking at him.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a monster.”

“I could never think that. You’re the best person I know.”

He meant it, and he only wished he could make her believe it, but the hard look in her eyes as she finally turned to him told him it was a battle he’d never win. “I committed genocide, Cullen. That war I told you about? I sacrificed an entire species to end it.” He didn’t know what to say, ineloquence triumphing yet again over his overwhelming want to comfort her; she took it as a condemnation, words tumbling from her in an effort to explain her actions. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to. I tried to save them. The Geth. But they were so intrinsically tied to our enemy, I couldn’t destroy one without the other. The cost to end the war was an entire species, and my crew, and I paid it.” 

The expression she wore was beyond painful; her jaw tightly clenched as she stared hard at the ground, eyes red from the sheer effort of not letting her tears fall. “Did you have any other choice?”

“Yes. But they were worse.”

“Then do not doubt you did what was right,” he said firmly, summoning the courage from somewhere deep inside him to grasp her shoulder and squeeze lightly. “You always do what’s right.” She let out a huff of air that clearly expressed she thought otherwise, and he added; “ill-considered jailbreaks notwithstanding, of course.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as she offered him a weak smile, then shook her head viciously as though to clear the sadness from it. “Is - uh - is your head alright?”

“It will be fine,” he said, ignoring the throb behind his eyes in favour of reassurance. “I’ve had far worse.”

“To be fair to her, that was nowhere near full power; full power and you’d be a Commander-shaped smudge on the wall. But… sorry,” she said reluctantly, her first sincere apology of the evening. “And I’m sorry for what I said earlier, too. I know you’re trying to make up for Kirkwall.”

“Consider it forgotten,” he told her. “Shepard, if…” he began, stumbling as she looked up at him expectantly. “Anything you need, you have but to ask.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, looking hesitant for a moment before pressing forward, pushing onto her tiptoes to circle her arms around his neck and place her chin on his shoulder. And it wasn’t their first embrace, but he fancied there was something different about this one; she held him tighter, closer, and he did the same, pressing her to his chest in the vain hope his touch could convey what his words could not. 

Her lips brushed against his cheek for only a moment, and then she was gone, turning on her heel and disappearing into the darkness, the faint tingle along his jaw the only thing left to convince him he hadn’t imagined the whole exchange. Like a fool, he touched his cheek, staring in the direction she’d left for far longer than necessary before finally returning to his tower once more.

Tomorrow, he would speak to the Inquisitor. And though he had no idea what he would say, he would have to try. For her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter has been worth the wait, thank you for bearing with me! Writer's block and a ridiculously busy schedule was the bane of April, but things are looking up now. For Shepard and Cullen too, hopefully...!


	36. Chapter 36

Cullen attended the Inquisitor’s quarters unbidden the following morning, fearing if left too long he would miss his chance to sway Trevelyan. He had just one idea, despite his sleepless night spent scouring his mind for more, but he hoped it was enough; presented in the correct way, he was almost sure it would be impossible to decline.

And completely manipulative.

He quashed that thought as he knocked sharply on the Inquisitor’s door; a few moments later it opened, revealing a ruffled and bleary-eyed Trevelyan still in his nightclothes. His expression clouded at seeing Cullen in the doorway, hand twitching for a phantom sword at his hip.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen began, raising one hand to allay his concerns. “I came to speak to you regarding Liara.”

Trevelyan’s tension faded as he emitted a long and pained groan, rubbing his tired eyes with his sleeve. “Isn’t it a little early for this, Commander?”

“It is after eight, Inquisitor,” Cullen pointed out, more sharply than he intended; Trevelyan sighed, raising his hands in defeat.

“Very well; come in.” He indicated to the two chairs by the fireplace, sitting down heavily in one and yawning as he looked up at Cullen. “Make your case.”

It was a little off-putting to have to make his case when he was concerned the Inquisitor would fall back to sleep at any moment, but he ploughed ahead nonetheless, sitting opposite Trevelyan and drawing his chair close enough to ensure his full attention. “Firstly, you must understand that by judging Liara, you are by extension judging Shepard,” Cullen told him. “She will turn to violence to protect her friend if you sentence Liara to death; there is no question in my mind about that.”

“I don’t intend to end Liara’s life,” Trevelyan said, voice soft yet resolute despite his patent tiredness. “I wouldn’t do that to Shepard. But she can’t continue to work within the Inquisition.”

“She has already seen how we work,” Cullen persisted, his anxiety in no way eased by Trevelyan’s first concession. “In this past month she has learnt information which would be invaluable to Corypheus. Turning her aside would be unwise.”

“I don’t think she’d go back to him. _She_ wouldn’t do that to Shepard.”

“But you do realise if Liara leaves, Shepard will too.”

Trevelyan sighed again, staring morosely into the empty fireplace. “The thought did cross my mind.”

“Then…” Cullen began, swallowing against his suddenly-dry throat as he took a stand against his superior once more; more readily than the first time, and less justifiably too. “Then I must also tell you I will not remain in an Inquisition without her in it.”

That woke Trevelyan up; his eyes snapped towards Cullen, suddenly worried and - he fancied - a little hurt. “That’s blackmail, Commander.”

“I know,” he admitted, remaining resolute all the same.

“Do you know what she said to me yesterday?” Trevelyan asked, much livelier now as he leaned forward in his seat. “I tried to have a perfectly reasonable discussion with her, and she called me - and I quote - a ‘dickhead with a weird hand’.” Cullen tried his absolute best not to show his amusement at that comment, and failed miserably; Trevelyan bristled as he unsuccessfully tried to cover his snort of laughter with a cough. “It’s not funny, Cullen!”

“It is a little funny, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan grunted in disapproval, though there a smile on his lips he was valiantly trying to hide. “You could have just asked me, you know. I thought recent events would show I’m sympathetic to the plight of the lovestruck.” Heat prickled Cullen’s neck at the Inquisitor’s casual words; it had been foolish to hope Trevelyan wouldn’t deduce his true feelings, but he had been acting more and more like a fool lately. A wretched, lovelorn fool. “What would you have me do with Liara instead? I have to do _something_.”

“Have her work with Dagna, looking for weaknesses in the Red Templars’ armour,” Cullen advised. “She knows enough about red lyrium, after all. And have her speak to Leliana, but not interrogated; I suggest having either myself or Josephine present for the exchange. _Not_ Shepard; she’ll only get… irrational.”

Trevelyan smiled properly then, with a shake of his head which clearly told Cullen he thought he was hopeless. “You have nothing to worry about, Commander. I don’t want to see Shepard leave us, but I can’t afford to have you leave too. As well you know.”

Cullen was unable to hold back his shaky sigh of relief, overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude towards his leader. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“You owe me, though,” he grumbled. “And you can explain it to the others when they come over all disapproving; Sera won’t stop moaning about this for weeks.”

“You could always set Shepard on her.”

“Good point; might as well make some use of her, now she’ll be sticking around.” He arched an eyebrow at Cullen. “Shepard, though. Really?”

“It was a surprise for me, too,” Cullen admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She is… one of a kind,” was the description he settled on, which was accurate but felt vaguely insulting. “So, you two are—”

“No,” Cullen hastily cut off the assumption, and Trevelyan’s face sank in disappointment.

“Oh. Doesn’t she know? Are you going to tell her?”

“ _Inquisitor_ …”

“If you can blackmail me, I can dig into your private life,” Trevelyan ignored Cullen’s protest, positively eager now. “Has this been a thing since Kirkwall? _Oh_ \- is this why you wanted me to recruit her? So you can finally—”

“I suggest you find Dorian for this,” Cullen said firmly, regretting his revelation more and more with each passing second, “and save me my dignity. He’ll be thrilled to have someone to gossip with.”

“In a weird way,” Trevelyan continued, either oblivious to or wilfully ignoring his discomfort, “I think I can see it. You’re relentlessly serious, she’s relentlessly… well, just relentless. You kind of even each other out.”

“I am not _relentlessly serious_.”

“Quite serious, then.” Trevelyan smirked. “When you’re not being sappy.”

“Maker— _good day_ , Inquisitor,” Cullen said, pushing up from his chair, keen to forgo any further teasing if possible; he hesitated at the doorway however, suddenly feeling terribly ungrateful in the face of Trevelyan’s lenience. “And… thank you, again. This means…” he trailed off, unsure how to articulate just how much the decision meant to him - because in truth, it meant everything. Trevelyan merely smiled, waving him away as he closed his eyes and sank back into his chair.

“I know. You sap.”

\---

Liara’s judgment was set for a week’s time, wisely in Cullen’s opinion; it allowed time for the hangers-on from the ball to disperse, and also for the heads of their more incensed associates to cool. Speculation was rife as to what the Inquisitor’s decision would be, and Cullen did not involve himself in the gossip, simply contented with the promise of a good man - and friend.

The side effect was Shepard spent a disproportionate amount of time pacing in front of his desk each day, distracting him from his tasks as she muttered vague and occasionally incoherent threats towards Trevelyan and the Inquisition as a whole. Cullen’s reassurances only went so far, as did plying her with busywork; sitting opposite him, she’d scribble replies to field reports with such ferocity he was convinced she would go through the paper and start carving into his desk. By the time the day came she was an irrepressible tangle of nervous energy, patrolling his office at such a rapid pace he was beginning to feel seasick.

“Maker, Shepard; please sit down. You’re making me nauseous.”

“What did Trevelyan say to you?” she asked, for approximately the hundredth time that morning, still not pausing in her jerky movements.

“I’ve already told you - it is in hand.”

“No; what did he actually say?” she pressed.

“He told me I had nothing to worry about.”

“Well, you _don’t_ ,” she grumbled. “It doesn’t matter to you.”

“It matters a great deal to me.” He said it a little too sharply, irked by her dismissal of him and her refusal to be mollified; she stopped, the tension in her body fading just a fraction as she shot him an apologetic half-smile. “What will take your mind off of it?” he asked, more calmly now.

“Hitting something, repeatedly.”

“Maker preserve me,” he muttered. “I cannot believe I’m doing this, but— would you like to spar?”

“You and me?” Cullen nodded, then immediately regretted every decision in his life leading up to that point as Shepard grinned malevolently at him. “Oh, Rutherford. I thought you’d never ask. Ready to go now?”

He looked down at his parchment-laden desk, already woefully behind on the day’s workload - but it wasn’t like he’d been accomplishing anything with her constant presence. “Yes. Name your weapon.”

“Daggers, obviously. Are you sword and shielding?”

“Obviously. Any conditions?”

“Yeah - none of that Templar cancelling bullshit.”

His ability to cleanse and smite was, since giving up lyrium, inconsistent at best and non-existent at worst, but she didn’t need to know that; not when he could use it to his advantage. “Very well - in which case, you cannot use your biotics.”

“Don’t need them,” she dismissed, and that right there would be her downfall - because she still overestimated herself, and underestimated him. As if he hadn’t been studying her fighting style for years. “First to land a killing blow wins?”

“Naturally. Allow me a moment to change into something lighter, and I shall meet you at the sparring ring.”

She nodded, practically skipping from his office as he scaled his ladder, carefully unbuckling his metalwork and placing it back on his mannequin. The day was unseasonably warm, and even with the breeze through his tower his skin prickled uncomfortably below his layers of armour; it would undoubtedly be hotter in the courtyard, and he couldn’t afford to be overwhelmed by the heat. Especially when his plan revolved around drawing the battle out.

Because he had been studying her, relentlessly in fact; he’d been quietly cataloguing her abilities ever since she’d first Thrown him from his feet. At first it had been his Templar training, vigilance against a likely attack from an unusually talented apostate; as time had gone on it had become habit, and then pride. Since her spar with Bull, it had been resignation; a reluctant acknowledgement that, one day, someone would demand to see the Commanders face off against each other, and he wouldn’t be able to say no.

There was no doubt in his mind that Shepard was the most talented fighter he’d ever known. But she still had her weaknesses; the fact she believed she didn’t, her biggest. Desire for a quick win, and frustration with a prolonged match of wills, made her predictable and careless; that had been the cause of her downfall in a great number of their chess games. And whilst the peculiarity and raw power of her biotics made her nigh invincible against strangers, he knew her better - so well, in fact, that in her bravado she’d relinquished her greatest asset.

And all in all, his strategy was hardly complex - but its simplicity lay in its strength. 

First, he would wear her down. Second, he would let her think she had the upper hand. And third, when she was at her most insufferable, he would annihilate her.

Selecting a light shirt, he descended his ladder once more, quickly making his way down the battlements and towards the sparring ring. He groaned as he saw the crowd which had already gathered - he’d been thoughtless not to anticipate Shepard doing _that_ \- and scowled at her as he approached, her look of innocence as she offered him a training sword and shield entirely unbelievable.

“Maker, Shepard; I did not want to turn this into a spectacle.”

“ _Awh_ ,” she pouted. “Is the big bad Commander scared of losing in front of his troops to a little tiny woman?”

Oh, yes. He was going to enjoy this.

“Get ready to have that smirk wiped off your face, _Commander_ ,” he said, deliberately sarcastic on her title; knowing she wasn’t above acts of sabotage, he inspected the weapons closely as he took them from her, clashing them against the fence several times to ensure their sturdiness. When they proved acceptable the pair made their way into the ring, standing ten feet apart with their weapons raised, and she clearly thought it was going to be an easy win; her grip on her daggers was so lazy it took everything in him to overcome his Commander instinct to bark corrections at her. “I know you are small, Shepard,” he began, too annoyed by her countenance to resist stooping to insults. “But a strike to my shins does not count as a killing blow.”

“Oh, Cullen. Your attempt at trash-talk is almost as hilarious as your real hair.”

He just managed to control the urge to run a hand through his hair, refusing to allow her the satisfaction of flustering him and instead glaring at her once more. She merely poked her tongue out at him, so gratingly obnoxious he was almost able to forget he was in love with her.

“Hold up, hold up!” It was Sera, gleefully pushing her way to the front of the crowd, her arms laden with money. “Any last minute bets?”

“Yes - twenty gold on me winning,” Cullen told her, revelling in the way Shepard flared up at his confidence.

“ _Fifty_ gold on me winning!” 

“You don’t _have_ fifty gold!” he shot back.

“I will after this!”

“You better be good for it, Jackboot,” Sera grumbled, and the implication she thought Shepard would win only further spurred him on; he locked gazes with Shepard, hand tightening around the pommel of his sword.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she replied.

She charged then, completely predictably, no biotics as agreed but still with the full force of her tenacity; though he easily dodged out of the way of her speeding form he wasn’t quite as prepared for the swing of her daggers as she whizzed past him. She caught him - only just - on the shoulder with the tip of one dagger, a graze which wouldn’t have stopped him even with a real weapon but still a hit; he spun to face her, shield raised, only to be greeted by perfect poise and a predatory grin.

And Andraste preserve him; he should have realised. Whilst he’d been studying her technique, she’d been doing exactly the same to him.

She darted forward again, and he rushed to meet her this time, shield clattering against her twin daggers; she followed through with a swipe to his flank that he was just able to parry with his sword. He pushed into the blow then took a step back, forcing more distance between them; she teetered on her feet for only a moment before regaining herself, the humour in her face suddenly lost to ruthless determination.

It would have been easy to go on the offensive then, but he didn’t, knowing it was what she’d expect; instead he took another step back, allowing her to approach and strike at him again. Because he knew that would aggravate her more; with every hit he dodged and parried she became more and more irritated, her finesse flickering with every failed attack. She actually growled once, when a particularly vicious strike was deflected by Cullen’s shield and he still made no attack of his own, baring her teeth when met with his intentionally provocative smirk.

It went on for much longer than it should have, like that; he merely blocking as she wore herself out, twisting and twirling around him for the weak points he kept so firmly guarded, face flushed and sweat beading her brow. He’d been right to shed his armour; maintaining so firm a line for so long would be exhausting even in cool weather, and under the sweltering sun his shirt clung uncomfortably to his chest, fraying curls hanging limply across his brow. Needing some respite, he threw the full force behind his next block, destabilising her for long enough to pull his shirt over his head.

“Wha— you can’t do that; that’s not allowed!” she protested as he threw his shirt to the ground.

“Would you rather I expire from the heat?”

“ _I_ have to put up with it - I swear, if you take your fucking shirt off I’ll just take mine off,” she warned, pointedly looking anywhere but his chest, and he cocked his head to one side.

“Do you… expect me to object to that?”

There was something bizarre about today, as for once he was the one flirting and she was the one blushing, a lovely flare of red blooming across her chest and neck even as her eyes narrowed to slits. “Enjoy your unnecessary display of masculinity whilst you can, Rutherford - you’re going down.”

He almost said something else then, but was prevented from vulgarity as Shepard charged at him; she feinted to the right at the last moment, surprising him and sending him off-balance. She kicked her foot out as he teetered, swiping at his legs and sending him stumbling backwards; he stayed upright, just, the crowd gasping as he staggered on his feet. Her grin was back, and if she thought she would win with underhand tactics she was woefully mistaken; even more so if she thought he was above them.

She moved in again, a twisting attack to his left flank he narrowly dodged, and that was when he made his move; he dropped his shield as her dagger sailed past him, arm around her neck as he pulled her in for his final finishing blow. And that should have been it; she was anchored in place, her back flush to his chest, daggers discarded as she fought to wrench his arm off of her, thoroughly helpless as he readied his sword.

But in his vigour, he’d forgotten one thing about Shepard - that, though she was nimble, she was also freakishly strong.

She used his weight against him, grabbing hold of his arm and lurching forward so violently the world turned upside-down as she flipped him over her shoulder. He crashed to the ground, sprawled out on his back, disorientated as he tried in vain to scramble back to his feet; Shepard launched herself on top of him, winding him as her knees struck his chest, her feet pinning his hands to the ground.

“Awh, look. The great Commander Curly,” she drawled as she sat astride him, reaching out to flick a stray curl from his brow, “thoroughly humiliated in front of all his troops. I declare that from this day forth, today shall be known as Shepard’s Day; in years to come, men and women will tell…”

She was still blathering on, and she hadn’t made her killing blow yet; Cullen’s eyes darted to the daggers just out of his reach, his course plotted only a flash before he took action. With all his remaining energy he pushed up into her, flipping their positions; he pinned her wrists above her head with one hand as she let out a surprised shriek, before grabbing her dagger and drawing it across her neck in one clean slice.

The crowd erupted with a mixture of cheers and boos as Shepard stared up at him, completely dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he grinned at her. “I— wha—”

“Some friendly advice, Shepard; next time you have your prey at your mercy, try to avoid monologuing. You aren’t one of Varric’s villains.”

“But— you _cheated_!”

“You forgot the rules!” he said, laughing at her expression of mingled horror and fury. “First to land a killing blow, not first to pin!” She struggled in his clutches, trying to force him off, but he kept her held tightly in his grasp. “From this day forth, today shall be known as Rutherford’s Day—”

“Get _off_ me!”

“Admit I am the better warrior.”

“Never.”

“Admit it, or I will keep you pinned here all day.”

She stopped fidgeting to arch an eyebrow at him, a smirk teasing the corners of her lips. “Do you expect me to object to that?”

If he remained on top of her like this he ran the risk of her discovering _just_ how appealing he found that thought, which was particularly undesirable with a crowd of people watching him. But he refused to let her have this; he’d beaten her, and now he wanted to hear it. 

“Admit it, Shepard,” he growled.

She tilted her chin defiantly, holding his gaze with such ferocity he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look away, and he was vaguely aware he’d been straddling her for far longer than acceptable - but in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Make me.”

The idea of kissing her, right then and there, was simultaneously the most tempting and most idiotic thing in the world; still, he couldn’t help but glance at her lips, slightly parted and _perfect_ as she fought to regain her breath. He leaned in, only a fraction, a reflex more than anything, fighting every single impulse inside him to close the rest of the distance and just—

“Commander; the Inquisitor—”

“ _No_!”

The cry came from none other than Cassandra; Cullen looked up to find her front-row of the sparring ring, red-faced with her hand clamped over her mouth as Dorian fell apart in silent laughter beside her. Cullen scrambled to his feet as embarrassment and disappointment and _fury_ crashed through him, storming over to the hapless recruit who’d had the audacity to interrupt his spar. 

Or _whatever_ that had been.

“ _What_?!”

There was a certain twisted pleasure Cullen took in just how quickly the colour drained from the man’s face; he took half a step back from his Commander, eyes darting between Cullen and the crowd behind.

“Th— the Inquisitor is ready for his Judgment, Commander,” he squeaked, turning on his heel and pelting away before Cullen could consider throttling him. He groaned as he fetched his shirt, daring to shoot Shepard a glance as he dressed once more.

“Fuck,” she mumbled, suddenly looking far too serious as she brushed herself down. “ _Fuck_. He said it wouldn’t be for hours - I need to—”

“It will be fine, Shepard.”

“You don’t _know_ that.”

“Yes, I do; trust me.”

She grimaced, running one hand through her hair and mussing her braid as she looked distractedly towards the main hall. “I’ll see you there in a bit,” she mumbled, dashing past him before he could protest further, and he didn’t know what she was up to but it couldn’t be anything good; he dithered on the spot, desperate to go after her but doubtful whether she wanted him to.

“Oi,” an indignant voice sounded at his elbow. “Your girlfriend owes me money.”

“She is _not_ — do not call her that,” Cullen snapped at Sera, who blew a raspberry at him in response. “And just - take it out of my winnings. I’m sure my odds were worse than hers.”

“Soft git. Here,” she said, shoving a handful of coins into his chest, and he pushed them into his pockets before hastily making his way to the main hall. With Sera still collecting on her debts from half of Skyhold, the place was mostly empty, though the Inquisitor was already sat on his throne; he arched an eyebrow at Cullen’s unusually casual attire, but said nothing.

“You lost me gold, Commander.” Cullen smirked as Dorian came to stand next to him, though he didn’t seem put out by the loss; he was actually smiling, and regarding Cullen with a strange sort of pride.

“You bet against me? Dorian, I’m insulted.”

“I thought she’d use her wiles to fluster you; I’m rather impressed you proved me wrong.” His smile broadened. “Glad to see you took my advice, by the way.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shirtless sparring. Good man.” 

“It is _warm_ ,” Cullen protested, though Dorian merely shook his head with a laugh.

“Of course, Commander. Although I must say, it certainly didn’t seem like Shepard minded being pinned underneath you. I was beginning to think you would enter her right there in the courtyard.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ , Dorian,” he grumbled, cheeks tingeing pink even as the words sent a thrill through him; because - and perhaps he was being ridiculous - but beyond her trademark flirting, for a moment it had almost felt like she wanted him, too.

Perhaps he should have kissed her after all.

Even if he never would have heard the end of it.

“I do not know why you are still going on about this,” Cullen mumbled, though his voice was softer now. “Not after…”

“After what?” Dorian asked; Cullen merely raised his eyebrows, unable to bring himself to vocalise what had passed between Shepard and Bull. “Oh, _that_ ,” Dorian said as realisation hit. “Yes, well; _that_ sounded more humiliating than anything, so I’m willing to let it slide.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Ah. I didn’t tell you - sorry.”

“Tell me _what_?”

“Nothing happened between them; nothing of note, at any rate. Two minutes of uninspired kissing and a brief glimpse of Shepard’s chest; Bull wasn’t sure which of them was less interested.” Cullen’s heart broke into a frantic gallop at the admission, his soul feeling a hundred times lighter as a smile erupted across his face. “Yes; I think that was my reaction, too.”

“So - you and Bull, are…”

“Tentatively forming something approaching a relationship,” Dorian clarified. “It’s… rather nice, actually.”

There was a hesitant hopefulness in Dorian’s voice which made Cullen’s chest swell with affection; in that instant, he found he was more pleased on Dorian’s behalf than his own. “Good for you,” he said, with a broad smile for his friend.

“Your Worship.” 

Josephine’s voice cut through the room like a knife and the crowd slipped into a quiet buzz of apprehension, felt rather than heard, as Liara was escorted into the hall. And it was hard not to feel sorry for her; hands clamped in manacles as her fear lay just identifiable beyond the cool visage she maintained, her undeniable strength muted and crushed. “I submit Liara T’Soni on the charges of conspiracy and treason. As you recall, Liara concealed her prior allegiance to Corypheus when she joined us; her red lyrium excavations have corrupted numerous Templars, and endangered our own forces.”

She bowed her head, and some of the residual resentment in Cullen’s chest loosened at her obvious shame for her actions. “These are serious charges, Liara,” the Inquisitor said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cullen scanned the hall as Liara made her case, trying to locate Shepard amongst the crowd; there was no sign of her however, no flash of red hair or plaid shirt to highlight her amidst the throng of people. It was deeply disconcerting, for it was beyond him why she would miss such a crucial event; he could only suspect she was planning something out of sight, and he dreaded to think what. He surreptitiously edged closer to the Inquisitor, indicating for Dorian to follow; if she was going to stage a coup he wanted to be the one who intervened, both to ensure her safety and to bash some sense into her. 

“Very well - Liara,” Trevelyan began to speak again as Cullen came in line with his throne; Josephine shot him a dirty look from the opposite side, delicate features fleetingly contorting into a scowl at his scruffiness. “You will no longer accompany me in the field; from now on you will work with Dagna, sharing all knowledge you have on red lyrium. You have helped make the Red Templar army - you will now help us unmake it.”

Liara blinked, seemingly lost for words at her sentencing. “That’s… that’s it?”

“No,” the Inquisitor continued. “You will also report to Leliana - under my supervision - and disclose all information you have on Corypheus. _All_ information, regardless of whether you think it will help us or not. I require complete transparency from my colleagues, and you are no exception.” Liara continued to stare at him, wide-eyed and unsure in the face of the Inquisitor’s mercy. “ _That_ is it.”

“Inquisitor, I… thank you,” she said, a distinct waver in her voice as she spoke, eyes glassy as she offered Trevelyan a tentative smile; he nodded, then signalled for the guards to unshackle Liara.

“Thank the Maker for that,” Dorian whispered as the crowd, clearly disappointed, began to disperse. “Now I won’t have to put up with you pouting over losing the love of your life.”

“Give it a rest, Dorian,” Cullen groused half-heartedly, too relieved to offer more of a defence against his teasing. 

Shepard appeared then, finally, pushing her way through the crowd and flinging her arms around Liara for a brief but tight embrace; she turned to the Inquisitor a moment later, taking a hesitant step towards him as though to hug him too, though seemed to decide against it and settled instead on an awkward salute.

“Trevelyan. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.” He nodded towards Cullen. “You’re lucky to have people who care so much about you.”

She looked up at Cullen, beginning to say something as she approached him, but whatever it was he missed as he took in her appearance properly. Because she was no longer in her casual clothes; she was fully armoured, two daggers on her back which were clearly _not_ her training weapons, the sudden confirmation of what he’d feared hurting far more than any moment of their spar.

“You are armoured,” he cut her off abruptly. “And armed.” He looked up at the balcony where she must have been hiding during the Judgment, a large bag just visible behind the railings, and for some reason that was the worst of it; that she’d been preparing, planning this, despite his promises and nigh-constant attempts to reassure her. “I asked you to trust me.”

“You know I do,” Shepard sighed, “but—”

“But evidently not enough.”

He said it with more rebuke than he intended; she flinched, and though he expected her to rile up and fight back she didn’t, almost contrite as she folded her arms across her chest.

“Cullen, please don’t be angry with me.”

“I am not angry. I’m just…” Finishing that sentence with _just disappointed_ made him feel far too much like his father, but it was true; it was so, soul-crushingly disappointing that she hadn’t given him this chance, hadn’t placed him above Liara just once. 

It occurred to him then it would never be him; it would always be Liara at the forefront of her mind, the only one she’d truly risk everything for. And one day, they’d find a way home - and Liara would leave, with Shepard right behind her.

And it was only to be expected. But it hurt, all the same.

“It matters not,” Cullen shook his head. “Go spend some time with Liara; I am sure she’s keen to be reunited with you.”

“Cullen—”

“It is fine. Truly.” He offered her the nearest thing he could to a smile, a terse and cracked stretch of his lips which he knew was anything but reassuring. “I am glad things have worked out for you both.”

She looked to Dorian, opening her mouth to speak before shaking her head, turning away from them both before heading back to Liara; Dorian tutted, nudging Cullen - not precisely gently - in the ribs. “You’re an idiot, Rutherford.”

“You saw her, _Pavus_.”

“And you _know_ her. Did you really expect her not to have a back-up plan?”

And he’d feared it, of course, but only at the last; up until she’d ran from the sparring ring he’d hoped, naïvely, that his word would be enough for her, and that she’d believe in him. But she hadn’t. “Her back-up plan probably involved killing half of Skyhold,” he muttered darkly.

From the other side of the room Shepard looked over her shoulder, gaze meeting with Cullen’s for only a second before her head snapped back to Liara once more - and he knew it was just his hopelessly hopeful imagination, but in that moment he could have sworn his own pain was reflected in her eyes. “Maybe so,” Dorian acknowledged. “But I doubt you would have been in that half.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT EDIT [MACHATNOIR](http://machatnoir.tumblr.com) DREW THE SPAR AND [IT'S THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD](https://chatnoir-art.tumblr.com/post/173999010434/hormones-this-little-and-silly-minicomic-is)


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of past abuse. Also Shepard uses a very bad word at one point; she's pretty angry.

Normality returned to Skyhold soon after Liara’s Judgment, and for the most part Shepard’s days proceeded like they always had. She attended Josephine’s lessons with Cullen each morning, and trained with Bull and Cassandra each afternoon; dinner she ate with Liara, discussing her and Dagna’s exploits as they did. And, on the whole, she was content. Except she no longer spent her evenings with Cullen. 

Because something had changed between them. There was an underlying tension ever since the Judgment, unspoken yet impossible to miss; his smiles were strained, and he laughed less at her jokes, and she got the sense that his reluctance in Josephine’s lessons was more due to her than the subject matter. And she missed him, which was absurd, as he was still _right there_ ; yet it wasn’t enough, and would never be enough, those brief points of contact granting no reprieve from the constant whining of her heart. She worried about him, too; he now spent more and more time alone in his office, probably working and definitely not looking after himself - and she would have gone to him, if only he wanted her there.

She almost didn’t want to leave for Halamshiral, because without Josephine’s classes she’d have no excuse for being around him - but after a long and boring carriage journey she and the Inquisitor’s chosen few stood within the Winter Palace’s gilded halls, each of them tragically matching in red uniforms. Cullen, of course, managed to wear the suit like a dashing officer straight out of some period drama, and she couldn’t decide whether it was worse to look at him or to look away from him; trying to ignore him proved almost as exhausting as a fight with a Thresher Maw, whereas watching him fawned over by a constant stream of admirers made her want to scream. She managed thirty whole minutes in the ballroom before getting completely fed up with it, weaving past faceless courtiers until she found a secluded balcony away from the fray; she closed the doors behind her with an emphatic shove as she stepped into the cool night’s air, leaning against the railings to stare up at the stars.

Even now, the night’s sky soothed her as little else could; she took a deep breath as she allowed herself to become lost in the lights above her, the barely-controlled bitterness inside her loosening at their exquisite permanence. Because it was hard to stay angry when bathed in such a serene glow; hard to remain preoccupied by confusing soldiers and brainless courtiers in the face of such endless beauty. Hard to care about the future when one day she’d be nothing more than dust on solar winds.

But it was also hard not to feel melancholy, because she still missed being amongst starlight; being grounded, impotent and insignificant, still made her yearn for the freedom she’d once had. The past four years had been nothing but insignificance. And it hadn’t mattered at first, because she hadn’t wanted anything more; she’d been content to live life day by day, not worrying what tomorrow might bring. Wanting more was pointless, and dangerous, and impossible.

And yet now she did, no matter how much she told herself she didn’t.

“I’m sick to death of that frown.”

The voice, though instantly recognisable, made Shepard jump; she hadn’t noticed Dorian joining her, watching her closely as he leaned against the railings. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked, voice softer now. “You’ve been in a foul mood for weeks.”

She and Dorian were not _quite_ back to the way they had been, but save for the odd snide remark he was surprisingly genial with her, and it felt ungrateful to fight off his concern. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here,” she muttered.

“Well,” he began, placing his hand on her forearm. “We’re here to ensure the Empress doesn’t meet a sticky end.”

She tore her gaze away from the stars to look at him, seeing in an instant he was wilfully misinterpreting her; there was no trace of his usual humour on his face, and his eyes were full of worry. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know. I would just rather pretend you meant something else.” He watched her silently for a moment longer before trying again, this time seeming to choose his words with great care. “What we’re doing is saving the world. Is that not enough for you?”

“It was once,” she admitted, heart clenching at the thought of her old mission - and her old crew. “I’m not sure it is anymore.” She sighed again, feeling utterly defeated as she looked back to the stars - stars which were so thoroughly out of her reach, and which weren’t even _hers_. “I mean, what am I going to have once this is over? You’re all going to move on. You’ll run back to Tevinter and Cass will run back to the Chantry and Trevelyan will go live in a mansion with Josephine and their thousand children and I… I’ll be alone, _again_.”

Of course it wasn’t just them; the hardest to bear would be Cullen, because there would come a day where someone would show him interest and he wouldn’t mind, and then Shepard would have to watch on, as he fell in love and she faded and flickered from his view. And it wasn’t even the thought of not being with him - it was the thought of him not being _there_.

“You’ll have Liara,” Dorian reminded her, bringing her back from the precipice of her thoughts.

“I’ve already halfway lost her,” Shepard mumbled. “Maybe she’s been right all along; maybe I should be focused on trying to get home. Even if everyone I care about is dead,” she added darkly.

“Is this why you tried to sleep with Bull?” he asked, without accusation. “Because you’re lonely?”

“I’m not _lonely_ ,” she bristled. “I’m just sick of having nothing but war in my life.”

“Ah,” he said, as though he could see straight through her chest and read on her heart the desires she refused to acknowledge. “You want a future. You know,” he continued tentatively, “if you wanted a future with… someone, you could have it.”

“Really? Because every time I’ve tried to have one it’s been an unmitigated fucking disaster.” She took a deep breath, forcing her resentment down once more. “Besides, that’s not what I want.”

“Then what is it you want?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she said, wincing at the snap in her tone. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know.”

“Then… where is this all coming from?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, less honestly than before.

Dorian sighed and shook his head, clearly unconvinced. “I’m not here to talk you off a ledge. You should do what makes you happy. Just know that if you left us, it would break more than one heart.”

“Yours included?”

“Absolutely not.” 

She let out the nearest thing to a laugh she’d been able to manage in a week, nudging Dorian gently in the ribs before they sank into a companionable silence. They remained stood there, gazing out across the silver-tinted grounds even as a bell rang within the palace’s halls, the only words spoken Dorian’s as he assured her no-one would miss them if Shepard wished to stay a little longer. It wasn’t until the door behind them creaked open they moved, turning to find the Inquisitor flanked by Cassandra; away from the court Trevelyan’s poise now slipped, tension clear across his face. 

“What is it?” Shepard asked. “Did you find anything out about that apostate?”

“She found me,” Trevelyan corrected. “She seems genuinely concerned about Celene. She gave me a key to investigate further; I think it’s to the servants’ quarters.”

“And where did she find that?” Dorian asked.

“On a Tevinter agent she killed.”

“Ah,” Shepard said grimly. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Me too,” Trevelyan admitted. “Are you two ready to join me?”

They both nodded, Shepard keen to escape the strange moment of vulnerability she’d found herself in. Dorian, thankfully, pushed no further in the company of the others, instead grilling Trevelyan on what he’d discovered thus far; though he had only hints of information, the news of Tevinter agents and disappearing elves made her worry for what they’d find next.

She shouldn’t have been surprised it was bodies.

“By the Maker,” Cassandra muttered as they set foot in the servants’ quarters, grimacing at the slain elves at their feet. “Someone will be held accountable for this.”

“Who would do something like this?” Shepard asked, aghast. “These are just civilians. This isn’t politics; it’s murder.”

“It’s slaughter,” Dorian corrected. “But it’s Orlais. You’ll find few who care about dead elves.”

“There’s more,” Trevelyan said, peering out across at the gardens; Shepard came to stand next to him, gut twisting at the bodies strewn over bloodstained cobbles. “Andraste preserve us. There’s _so many_ …”

They stopped to check each body in turn for signs of life as they made their way through the gardens, anger rising in Shepard’s chest with each absent pulse; despite empty eyes and bloodless cheeks they looked _afraid_ , transfixed even in death by the enemy they’d never stood a chance against. “Over here,” Trevelyan called, indicating to another body; a man dressed in finer clothes than the others, face masked like those dancing further inside. “This isn’t a servant. What’s he doing here?”

“A Council of Herald’s emissary,” Dorian noted, crouching to inspect the body. “And… is that the Chalons family crest on the dagger? What are you up to, Gaspard?”

“We need to have a word with the Duke. We should—”

Trevelyan was cut off by a high-pitched scream; they looked up to see an elven woman running at full speed, but not fast enough to evade the masked figure pursuing her. The rogue span through the air, striking the woman down with twin daggers before disappearing in a puff of smoke; Shepard swivelled to try and locate them again, catching a glimpse of them now high above on the balcony.

“Venatori agents!” Trevelyan cried out as more men appeared from the darkness; out of instinct Shepard reached for daggers on her back, stomach dropping as her fists clenched around air.

“We don’t have any fucking weapons!” she screeched, indicating for Trevelyan to get behind her as her mind raced towards a plan of attack. Three zealots rapidly approaching and two spellbinders in the distance, none of whom would have presented a challenge if she’d had at least one dagger and a passable set of armour; as it was, fist-fighting in lightweight formalwear was risky even for her. She grabbed the dagger from the dead emissary’s back as their enemies closed in, and if she didn’t make a move soon they’d be cornered; her only option was to do what came best to her, Charging at the zealots and sending two of the three crashing to the ground.

She couldn’t waste a second waiting for them to strike back; she swung out at the only man still standing, his pained shriek echoing through the gardens as her dagger sank into his neck. She kicked his sword to Cassandra as he crumpled to the floor, blood spurting violently from the unsurvivable wound; Cassandra dashed past her towards the spellbinders as she turned to the men now stumbling to their feet.

“Shepard, duck!”

She obeyed Dorian’s command not a moment too soon, rolling to the ground as a Venatori ice blast shattered against the fountain behind her; Dorian, staffless but never powerless, retaliated with a shockwave, the electricity crackling between the enemy mages as Cassandra met them with her blade. Shepard jumped to her feet as the zealots regained theirs, and she just couldn’t resist knocking them over again; this time when she Charged she followed through with two fatal dagger strikes, each man dead before they’d hit the floor.

“ _In Orlais we dual with words, not fists_ ,” Shepard said, affecting an Antivan accent as she handed Trevelyan a sword. “I’m going to fucking kill Josephine.”

“The Venatori were watching this approach,” Trevelyan muttered. “They’re organised.”

“We need to find the other one - the one in the mask. I saw them disappear up there,” Shepard said, pointing at the balconies.

“Then let us find them - and be careful,” Cassandra said. “There are likely more inside.”

She was right; yet more Venatori agents lay in wait inside the Grand Apartments, springing from behind pillars and within bedrooms just when they thought they’d slain the last. Without armour it was up to Shepard and Dorian to protect them with barriers, and hanging back from the fight as she focused all her energy on defence was as frustrating as it was exhausting.

“This is ridiculous,” Shepard grumbled after an ambush in the library, allowing her biotic shield to fall and recharge. “We either need to find some armour or find another route.”

“I agree,” Dorian said, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from his brow. “A place like this should be full of servant’s passages; if we find one, perhaps we can get the drop on that rogue.”

Trevelyan shook his head even as Dorian began to pace the periphery of the room and knock on panelled walls. “We can’t waste time; they should only be up the next corridor—”

“And there could be twenty more Venatori before that,” Dorian countered, face lighting up at the distinctly hollow thud on one wall. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed as he pushed against the wood; it creaked back to reveal a dusty and narrow passageway, which Dorian quickly illuminated with a twist of his staff.

“Fine,” Trevelyan huffed. “Check where it leads. If nothing else, we don’t want Venatori using it to spring on the Empress unawares.”

“Shepard, would you do the honours?” Dorian asked, and though he only wanted her as a human shield she nodded, ducking into the passageway as he followed closely behind. It was longer than she expected, and she was fairly certain they were going the wrong way, their path sloped downwards and never never bending back towards where they’d left; her suspicions were confirmed when, five minutes later, she prised open the panel at the other end and stumbled into a room lined with stuffed and mounted creatures. The trophy room, evidently, the one kept under close guard near the Hall of Heroes, although the collection seemed rather pathetic, the only half-exciting animals a quillback and— 

“What. The fuck.”

She stared in horror at the head mounted on the opposite wall, bile rising in her throat at the so familiar yet so startling sight, half-convinced she was hallucinating - because how in the _fuck_ was there a Krogan in the Winter Palace, and how had the Orlesians managed to get the better of him? “What a remarkable specimen,” Dorian noted as he inspected the macabre display. “ _Unknown monstrous beast, taken down by a hunt in Serault by Duke Emeric, 9:41 Dragon_.” The detached interest with which he read the Krogan’s plaque sparked her to life once more, his words prodding the fire inside her she tried _so hard_ to keep tamed; she stormed forward, hands shaking and crackling with her biotics. “That is— Shepard, what are you doing?”

She wasn’t entirely sure _what_ she was doing; the blind rage she hadn’t felt in _years_ now coursed through her veins and eclipsed any rationality, her only clear thought _he deserved better_. Pressing onto her tiptoes, she clasped the wooden backing and attempted to pull it from the wall; she snarled as it remained firmly in place, stuck fast with mortar against brick.

“ _Shepard_!” Dorian scolded, placing a hand on her arm; she shrugged him off with a glare before focusing on the Krogan once more. “Trevelyan!” he called instead, shouting up the passageway to their leader. “Best get down here!”

She was vaguely aware of a clattering along the passageway behind them, and it occurred to her Trevelyan probably thought them in trouble, but that didn’t matter; all that mattered was she couldn’t get the mount to budge, no matter how hard she tugged and pushed. With a growl she sparked up her biotics, attempting to Pull it from the wall; it shook promisingly for a second before a hand clapped down hard on her forearm, Trevelyan spinning her to face him.

“What are you _doing_?!”

“I’m taking him down.”

“Why?!”

“Because I am.”

Her mind was too full of fury to offer any further explanation, the words inside her blurred by rage clashing against sorrow and pain. Because there on the wall was her home, butchered and brandished and _ruined_ ; a novelty, like her, strength turned to sport and forgotten.

Trevelyan groaned as she wrenched out of his grip. “Maker, Shepard!” he shouted, sounding almost as furious as she felt. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“What is wrong with _me_?!” she screeched. “What is wrong with a _society_ that thinks it’s okay to murder someone and stick his head on a fucking wall?!” She pulled a dagger from her back, attempting to force it between wood and brick; the blade slid in an inch, and her lips twisted in grim satisfaction. “The same society that doesn’t care about —” she huffed as she tried to wedge the blade deeper, “— fifty dead elves — or a hole in the sky — _no_ , just, fancy forks, and dancing—”

“Shepard, please; we do not have time for this,” Cassandra attempted to reason with her, an odd tinge of desperation to her voice. “Let us come back later—”

“You _know_ that won’t happen—”

“And nor should it!” Trevelyan yelled. “We cannot risk a diplomatic incident because you object to hunting!”

“Then fuck off and fight the Venatori yourself!” she snapped; he went very quiet at that, and his wounded expression when she glanced at him over her shoulder tempered her anger with guilt. But it wasn’t enough to make her stop; not when a Krogan loomed over her, humiliated and broken. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “But I’m not leaving without him.”

“Fine,” he ground out. “ _Fine_. I’ll just go and get bloody killed, then - when you speak at my funeral, make sure you tell everyone it’s all your fault. Come on, you two,” he said to the others; Cassandra groaned as she returned to the passageway, but Dorian remained beside Shepard, watching her half-heartedly try to prise the display free once more.

“Here,” he said softly, taking his staff from his back. “Let me try.”

“Are you _serious_ , Dorian?!”

“Inquisitor, I suggest you return to the ballroom for twenty minutes. That way no-one can link you to what I’m fairly certain is a capital offence.”

Trevelyan spluttered in disbelief as Dorian turned his back on him, then with a final groan of frustration stormed back the way they came; his heavy footsteps faded into the distance as Dorian began to cast, a controlled ice spell aimed directly at the crack she’d created. “Thank you,” she muttered, feeling utterly undeserving of his support.

“Don’t thank me,” he huffed. “Just… spring me from prison when we inevitably get arrested.”

“I can try,” she told him. “But I’m not very good at escaping.”

\---

The Winter Palace was, somehow, even worse than Cullen had anticipated. His final advice from Josephine had surmounted to ‘stand in the corner and try not to say too much’; he wasn’t sure whether it was his deportment or his general disdain for Orlais which had prompted the instruction, but he was content to follow the command. It was easy to merely stand in the corner, watching for signs of danger and judging every single member of the court - except for the fact people kept trying to talk to him. And touch him. And violate his personal space in every possible way.

His headache wasn’t helping matters; it was hard to push past the nonsense and focus on the little details of their surroundings whilst also fighting the pounding in his skull, made more insistent by every high-pitched laugh and crooning compliment. He needed to focus on the present, for their mission as much as for his sanity - but with each unwanted brush of hands against him he was forced further from the room and deeper into that cage he’d never fully escape, unnatural magic closing in once more each time he shut his eyes. And this time there was no Shepard by his side, no careful clasp on his arm to anchor him to reality; there was a gulf there now, greater still than the physical distance between them, and though he wanted nothing more than to close it he needed to let his heart heal. 

And the only way it could was away from her, despite how it protested that choice.

“Are you married, Commander?” a thickly-accented voice cut above the rest as a fresh hand grabbed at his jacket.

“No,” he admitted, adding before he could stop himself, “but… my heart belongs to another.”

“Still single, then?”

Glaring at nobles was strictly against Josephine’s rules, so he contented himself with simply huffing, crossing his arms in a vain attempt to shield himself from further assault. It didn’t work; yet another hand pressed in, clutching and desperate, and with it the cage got smaller and smaller and—

“Commander!”

The voice which called out next was mercifully _not_ Orlesian; Trevelyan had appeared at his elbow, his presence forcing an inch of breathing room between Cullen and his admirers. “We need to talk. Now.” He turned on his heel before Cullen could reply, but not before he’d registered the seriousness of his expression; Cullen, equal parts curious and worried, followed him, shaking off the gaggle of nobles as he stepped out into the vestibule.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said as he nodded to Cassandra and Josephine, who both shared Trevelyan’s grim expression. “Is something the matter?”

“Everything is fine—”

“It is not _fine_ , Josie!” Trevelyan interrupted, though he proceeded in a calmer tone as Josephine’s eyes flashed in warning. “Shepard has gone completely rogue. I regret ever listening to a single word of your advice on that— that _nightmare_ of a woman.”

Cullen frowned, and though he knew he should be concerned by Shepard’s defection he was too annoyed by Trevelyan’s words. “That is a little harsh, Inquisitor,” he said, but his reprimand only incited Trevelyan.

“It absolutely is not. She’s in the trophy room trying to forcibly remove one of the displays, and Dorian has somehow been sucked into her madness. So now Cassandra and I have to go fight a horde of Venatori by ourselves, and we barely made it through the servants’ quarters; if that Briala hadn’t shown up—”

“What is the display?”

“Why is _that_ important?!” 

“It is some beast I’ve never seen before,” Cassandra cut in as Trevelyan shot Josephine a look of utter despair. “But she is angry enough about it to risk throwing the entire evening. Perhaps you should try reasoning with her.”

“Me?” Cullen asked. “What good would that do?”

“She listens to you,” Josephine told him. “And you are able to understand her - ah - _peculiarities_ far better than the rest of us.”

“She doesn’t listen to me at all,” he grumbled.

“Cullen, please. If nothing else, it will get you away from the court for half an hour.”

Josephine, expert diplomat that she was, had a point, and Cullen threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine. I will try to talk some sense into her, but I make no promises.”

It was surprisingly easy to get past the trophy room’s guard - a quick war story with the promise of more from Trevelyan was plenty persuasion for the man to leave his post - and Cullen’s heart sank as he eased inside and found the situation exactly as described; Shepard on her tiptoes, using her daggers in a wholly unsafe fashion to prise a mounted head from the wall, as Dorian watched on in grim silence.

“Having some trouble?”

Shepard’s head snapped towards him, dark eyes filled with fury. “Do _not_ start with me, Rutherford,” she warned, turning back to the mounted head once more; with another fierce push of her dagger she managed to chip away some mortar, the mount wobbling as dust and stone fell to the floor.

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“What does it look like?”

“Like you’re trying to steal the head of some beast—”

“ _He’s not a fucking beast_!” 

The shrillness of her voice actually made Cullen wince, his headache flaring once more; Dorian sighed, abandoning Shepard’s side to approach him. “I’ll watch the door. Go easy on her,” he muttered. “I don’t understand it, but— she keeps calling it _him_.”

Dorian left them alone then, and Cullen continued to watch her, the sense of unease in his chest growing with each jab of her dagger. Because this wasn’t her; though her brashness frequently masqueraded as anger he’d only known her like this once before, and thinking back to that time - to her glowing hands and shaking voice and his colleagues slain at her feet - only reminded him of how little he used to know her. Back then he’d been scared, sure his charge would lose control to the innate power inside her - but now he knew better. Now he heard the cracked lament in her words, and saw the almost-imperceptible glisten in her eyes, and he knew what drove her wasn’t anger; it was pain. And whatever - whoever - the creature on the wall was, he was clearly more than a creature to her.

“Who is he?” he asked quietly, shoulder against shoulder as he inspected the… man? It was hard to attribute that word to the creature; he looked fearsome, and wild, scarred face snarling even in death.

“He’s a _Krogan_ ; that’s who he is,” she muttered. “And the Krogan didn’t suffer through the Rebellions and the Genophage and centuries of the Council being fucking useless only to get mutilated for the amusement of _cunts_.” 

He was more than accustomed to Shepard’s colourful turns of phrase, but he’d never before heard her curse quite so viciously; he flinched at the venom in her voice, wanting desperately to fix it but unsure how. “Mollie…”

“Don’t ‘Mollie’ me, _Stanton_.” He flushed at the mocking emphasis she placed on his newly-discovered middle name, but she was too preoccupied to notice. “I should burn this place to the fucking ground.”

With another grunt she shoved her dagger further behind the head, jiggling it about with such vigour he was sure she would injure herself, and he placed one hand on her wrist to still it. “You’re going to slice your hand open. Let me try.”

“I’m stronger than you.”

“I’m taller than you.”

She let out a grunt of disapproval but relented, handing him the dagger and taking a step back; he tried from a different angle, wedging the dagger at the crown of the piece and forcing downward. It barely moved, firmly cemented to the wall, but he continued, enlisting leverage where Shepard had chosen sheer force; after several minutes of diligent chipping and prying the piece finally came free, Shepard catching it before it could fall on the floor.

“What now?” he asked, fastening her dagger to her back as she held the head close to her chest.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Then let’s get him back to the carriages,” he told her. “We can decide later how to you wish to proceed.” 

“Smuggling him past the mob might be difficult,” she said, indicating to the door; hesitantly he opened it a fraction, poking his head through the doorway.

“Is she done?” Dorian asked, still diligently guarding the door.

“Yes and no. We need to get it - him - past this lot.”

“Not to worry; I’m more than capable of causing a distraction. The carriages aren’t far from the balconies; once I’ve corralled them—”

“You expect us to scale down a balcony?”

“Would you rather parade past the Empress?” he asked, and then, drawing himself taller and raising his voice so it echoed down the hallway, “by the Maker, is that true? Is acclaimed author Varric Tethras really giving away advanced copies of his latest book in the Grand Library?”

Cullen was both grateful for and baffled by the subsequent reaction; a wave of excitement spread through the crowd as each person turned on their heel and rushed off towards the library, and Dorian winked at Cullen before following the herd. “We’re clear,” Cullen called over his shoulder, holding the door open for Shepard.

“Off the balconies, I take it?” she asked; he nodded, and they made their way swiftly outside.

“Alright; if you just hand me— _Maker’s breath_!” Cullen exclaimed as Shepard, without ceremony, hoisted herself onto the railings and jumped off; the darkness sparked bright with her biotics as she fell from view, and a moment later he heard a soft thud on grass. “You could warn me before you do something like that!” he hissed over the railings.

“Get a move on!” she shot back; he did, clambering down the trellis and following her towards the carriages. It was only then, as she hauled the head inside and slammed the door shut with such force the entire vehicle shook, that her furious energy began to ebb; her shoulders slumped as she pressed her forehead against the carriage door, eyes scrunched shut in sadness and defeat.

“Are you alright?”

“Not really.” She pushed back to look up at him, offering him a weak half-smile which made his chest ache. “Thank you,” she mumbled, smile failing as her gaze fell to the floor. “And… sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” he said, instinct driving him to reach out to her; he caught the reflex at the last moment, clenching his hand into a fist and returning it to his side. “Do you want to talk about them? The… Krogan?” The word felt strange to say, but she relaxed a fraction on hearing it. “You must have had friends amongst them.”

“A few,” she agreed, adding to herself more than him; “it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“How he’d get here.”

“You said you were pulled here through a rift - perhaps the same happened to him.”

“Perhaps,” she said, though it was clear from her tone she didn’t believe it. “We should probably get back inside.”

“Do we have to?” he groused. “I would much rather stay out here than have to face that rabble again.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I got the impression you didn’t much want to speak to me.”

“I always want to speak to you,” he muttered without thinking; her expression flickered to one of surprise, and he felt compelled to admit the truth to her, just this once. “I, just… what happened with Liara, knowing you didn’t trust me—”

“Cullen, I _do_ , it’s just—”

“It’s fine,” he raised a hand to cut off her protest. “I know to you I’ll always be that stubborn Templar who forced you into a Circle, and he… he is not a man who can be trusted easily.” 

She stared at him for a long moment, brow puckered in confusion. “How can you think that’s what you are to me?”

“Then what am I?”

He almost didn’t want to know the answer; she looked to the floor once more, opening her mouth once and shutting it again before committing to what she wanted to say. “You’re the most important person in all of Thedas to me,” she mumbled, voice so quiet he was half-convinced he’d imagined the words, because how could she possibly feel that way? How could she possibly care for _him_ to such an extent, knowing full well all which had passed before? When she was so _good_ , and he was not, no matter how much he wished he could be?

“Oh,” was the only word he could find, which was weak and trite and _nothing_ compared to her admission. “But… what about Liara?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t—” she cut herself off abruptly, flinching as though the words on her tongue had bitten her. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head as she glared determinedly at the ground; when it was clear she would say no further he took a tentative step forward, hands still by his sides despite how they ached to hold her.

“I hardly need say it,” he began, choosing his words very carefully for fear of revealing too much, “but you are the same to me.”

“ _Hardly need say it_ ,” she repeated, lips twisting into the first true smile he’d seen from her all evening. “I distinctly remember you telling me once that I was like a yappy dog.”

“That was _years_ ago,” he protested, though he smiled now too. “And it was harsh, but… not entirely inaccurate.”

She gasped in mock outrage, shoving him gently in the shoulder. “If only your horde of admirers knew how rude you really are; they’d be shocked and appalled.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” he grunted, his amusement immediately fading. “I do not see what their obsession is with me.”

“Oh, _come on_ ; you’ve seen all the weedy men in this place. It must be such a thrill to meet a man with actual upper body strength.”

“So I’m a novelty,” he huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

“No; you’re the Commander of the most powerful army in Thedas. They were going to be interested in you anyway; the fact you look good is an added bonus.” He didn’t know quite what to say to that, her tone too matter-of-fact to take the words as a compliment, and so he said nothing, choosing instead to scowl at his shoes. “I take it that pouty face means you haven’t found a dance partner yet.”

“Don’t start, Shepard.”

“Pity. All those lessons gone to waste.” He didn’t correct her, not electing to mention time spent in her company was never wasted; when she spoke next the teasing lilt in her voice had gone, replaced by that concern which still sometimes surprised him. “You really hate it in there, don’t you?”

“Mm.”

“Why?”

“It…” he began, avoiding her eyes as he hesitantly voiced for the first time the fear which lay inside him. “It makes me feel like I am back there. In Kinloch, when…” he stopped as he lost his nerve. “Forgive me. I’m sure you do not wish to hear about this.”

“If you want to tell me, I want to listen.”

When he looked at her again her eyes were wide, not with pity but with empathy, and he realised if anyone had a chance at understanding it was her; she knew, after all, what it was like to be ripped from innocence, and to be pushed into an existence of anger and fear. “When the demons came for me, they— all I could do was close my eyes and pray for it to end. I was powerless to their… _sport_. Being surrounded by those _people_ ,” he indicated viciously at the palace, “not being able to get away… it makes me feel as helpless as I did back then.”

She said nothing for an excruciatingly long moment before reaching out and gently - _tenderly_ \- placing her hand on his; the tension in his hunched shoulders and folded arms faded under her touch, anxiety and resentment softened by quiet compassion. “I wish I knew what to say to make it better,” she murmured.

“You don’t need to say anything. Just you being here…” _That_ was slightly too close to a confession, one he derailed just in time; he squeezed her hand once before withdrawing, though he immediately felt worse for the distance between them. “And besides, I do not wish to burden you any further.”

“You could never be a burden,” she said, so sincerely he almost believed it - but before he could say anything else her expression hardened, eyes turning shrewd and distant. “Ah, _shit_.”

“What?”

“Is it just me, or does that green glow look suspiciously rift-like?”

He turned as she indicated behind him, heart sinking at the eerie glow spilling from the eastern wing of the palace. “Well… shit,” he repeated, unable to think of a more accurate description than Shepard’s. “You need to go,” he told her. “I’ll head back to the ballroom, make sure the mob is still unaffected.”

“Be careful,” she urged, which was ridiculous when she was running at a rift and he merely returning to the court, but still he nodded as she drew her daggers.

“You too,” he said though she was barely listening, sharp eyes roving across the building for the best route to her goal; she set off in a sprint towards the palace, and as she slipped into the darkness the disquiet she’d calmed flooded through his chest once more.

 _So much for keeping your distance_ , a voice in the back of his mind scolded; he pushed it down, steeling himself as he marched back towards the palace and the slew of nobles who lay in wait for him. For what was the point in keeping his distance, if she was his only constant in a sea of uncertainty; the only one who made him soften, and hope, and believe he could be something more than he was?

 _Then tell her_ , the voice spoke again, quiet yet resolute, and it was _madness_ but no more so than pretending he could move on from her. 

And perhaps, he couldn’t help but hope, if she could forgive his past and allow him the chance to be better - then perhaps she could allow him a chance on this, too.

First, they had to save Orlais. But then… then, maybe, he would find the courage to say the words in his heart.

\---

Shepard raced through the palace in a desperate bid to reach the rift before chaos unfurled, but unfortunately her path was not clear; though their numbers were now fewer, Venatori assassins still lurked in the shadows, not a challenge but still a delay towards her goal. By the time she regrouped with the Inquisitor his battle was already over, rift closed and demons disintegrating around him; as Shepard skidded to a halt in front of him he met her with expression of pure outrage.

“Oh! Look who’s decided to grace us with her presence!”

“Trevelyan, please—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped. “We need to get back to the ballroom before the Duchess moves on the Empress.”

“Who?”

“Duchess Florianne. I greeted her at the start. I danced with her.” He threw his hands up in defeat at Shepard’s blank expression. “By the Maker; why did I even bother bringing you?!”

“I’m sorry; I really am. But I’m here now, one hundred percent.”

“I don’t need you _now_ ; I needed you twenty minutes ago, when you were too preoccupied with your own inflated sense of—”

“Enough!” He was lucky Cassandra had the foresight to interrupt him, because Shepard’s contrition was swiftly giving way to annoyance. “You have an Empress to save; you can shout at Shepard as much as you like later.”

Their route back to the ballroom was now clear thanks to Shepard, but she suspected pointing that out would be poorly received; the tension between them hung heavily as they made their way through the corridors, and she was relieved when they found people and noise once more. 

“Thank the Maker you’re back,” Cullen said, intercepting them as soon as they burst through the ballroom doors; he looked even more strained than when she’d seen him last, and in that moment she regretted ever leaving his side. “The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?”

“Wait here,” Trevelyan told him. “I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.”

“What? There’s no time! The Empress—” Cullen’s protest was lost as Trevelyan swept away from them, determined and bold as he strode across the dancefloor. “What’s he doing?” he asked Shepard. “What’s going on?”

“I have next to no idea. Did you run into any trouble?”

He shook his head. “No signs of anything untoward here, but I have my men in position anyway. We should—”

“We owe the Court one more show, Your Grace.” The entire court took a collective breath as Trevelyan’s voice cut across the ballroom, each person turning in synchrony to observe him approach his target. “The eyes of every noble in the Empire are upon us; remember to smile.”

Shepard may not have paid any attention to the Duchess earlier, but it was hard to miss the classic tells of cornered prey now; though her face remained blank behind her mask, her eyes darted to her nearest escape route as she took half a step back from Trevelyan. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?”

“You, I would assume. I seem to recall you saying ‘all I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike’. You know; when your archers failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me this last dance.”

Trevelyan was doing an exceptional job of being dramatic, and the court was giddy with the scandal, their excitable twitters vibrating through the room as Shepard tried her very best not to roll her eyes. “He’s really hamming it up, isn’t he?” she murmured; Cullen let out a snort of laughter which he failed to cover with a cough, and that utterly endearing little sound was the best moment of Shepard’s entire evening.

“It’s so easy to lose your good graces,” Trevelyan continued, pacing a circle around the Duchess for added dramatic effect. “You even framed your brother for the murder of a Council emissary. It was an ambitious plan; Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds… all your enemies under one roof.”

“This is very entertaining, but you do not imagine anyone believes your wild stories?”

“That will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin,” the Empress spoke now, and that sentence alone was a condemnation; though Florianne begged her brother for help he turned his back as Inquisition soldiers closed in. 

“You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace. You’re just the last to find out.” He nodded to his soldiers as they cuffed and escorted the now-sobbing Duchess from the room, and when he looked up to the Empress, confident and proud and an _equal_ , it struck Shepard this was where he belonged; whilst as a leader he hesitated and a warrior he stumbled, in the Game, at least, he excelled. “Your Imperial Majesty, I think we should speak in private. Elsewhere.”

“Alright, I’ll hand it to him,” Shepard said, oddly proud as walked side-by-side with the Empress. “He did a pretty decent job there.”

“Indeed. You should get him angry more often.” Cullen should have been happy about the victory, but he still looked uncomfortably serious, brow puckered in a frown as he fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve. “I need to ensure my soldiers have the Grand Duchess securely guarded. But after, I— Shepard, can we talk?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Wha—no! I just—” he cut himself off with a clear of his throat as his gaze flickered to Dorian. “I would - uh - rather speak outside. Give me fifteen minutes, and I will meet you on the balconies.”

As he rushed after his troops she shot Dorian a bemused look. “That was weird.”

“Yes, it was,” he agreed, though he smiled softly as he said it. “Run along.”

It took significantly longer than fifteen minutes for Cullen to join her, and during that time she was a barely-contained ball of nerves; she had no idea what he wanted to speak with her about, but his troubled expression had told her it was unlikely to be anything good. A telling-off, probably, for the overreaction which seemed more and more foolhardy with every passing minute - and though she knew it was deserved she was half-tempted to avoid him, because for a shining moment away from the fighting they’d felt like _them_ again. 

And in that moment, as he’d stood by her in support and calmed the storm inside her, she’d very nearly said something _very_ stupid.

“So - how was the fight?”

Cullen’s voice broke her reverie as he came to stand next to her on the balcony, arm brushing against hers as they both leaned on the railings. “I actually missed it,” she said. “Trevelyan’s pretty mad about it; I think I’m getting benched for the foreseeable future.”

“Regardless, the evening couldn’t have turned out better for him; he’s orchestrated some grand truce between Celene and Gaspard. Josephine and Leliana are hailing it as a triumph.”

“Yeah. Except for the four dozen dead elves, but who cares about them?” The bitterness in her voice surprised even her; she sighed, running her fingers though her hair and mussing the intricate braid Josephine’s stylist had spent a good hour on, though the gesture did nothing to calm her. 

“You’re injured,” Cullen murmured, one hand reaching forward unexpectedly and pushing her hair back from her temple; she stilled immediately, barely daring to breathe for fear it would reveal the truth she was so desperately trying to deny.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re—” he began, but stopped as his thumb brushed over the perceived injury, dislodging dried flakes of blood - someone else’s blood - from her hairline. “Ah,” he said, dropping his hand and clearing his throat awkwardly. “It isn’t your blood. Well.” 

“Is it gone?” she asked, scrubbing at her brow with her sleeve in the vain hope it would mask the fact she was now _fucking blushing_ just from him touching her.

“Not - uh - not entirely.”

“Well, fuck it; my hair’s red anyway,” she mumbled. “Thanks, though. For the concern.” She angled herself away from him, staring determinedly anywhere but his direction, part of her hoping he’d just leave so she could mope in peace; he didn’t however, remaining quietly by her side as music began to play within the hall. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he ventured just as their silence became intolerable. “About those dance lessons going to waste. A-and you’re right; we spent too long in those classes not to dance with at least one person tonight.”

“I see,” she said, trying her hardest to sound disinterested and not woefully jealous. “Who’ve you got your eye on?” 

“Well, I— I think, all things considered, I’d much rather dance with you than anyone else here.”

She let out a surprised and completely undignified splutter as her head snapped to face him, an unbearably fast beat hammering in her chest; his face was unreadable, set firm in the same expression he used for issuing orders to his troops, and if it weren’t for the entreating crease in his brow she would have been convinced she’d imagined the question. “ _Why_?”

The word came out far harsher than she’d intended, a blunt demand rather than the bewilderment she felt; he flinched, flushing as he began to backpedal. “You don’t have to; I-I just thought, it might be fun, and—”

“No! I’d— I’d like to,” she hastily interrupted, “but - you _know_ I’m the worst dancer in the entire universe.” He said nothing, avoiding her eyes and looking mortified by the reaction he’d clearly taken as an accusation, and she gracelessly clutched for the right words to make him stop looking like _that_. “I really would like to.”

“You don’t have to,” he repeated. “It was just a thought.”

“No; let’s do it,” Shepard said firmly. “If any of your fans catch us they might get the wrong idea and leave you alone.”

“I do not think that will discourage them.”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

She stepped back from the railings and offered her hand to him, and for an agonising moment she thought he’d reject her; but then, with a lopsided smile which made her heart flutter, he took her hand in his and pulled her into closed hold. And it was nothing they’d not done before - she was all too used to the hard muscles under her palms, and the cool breath fanning her cheek, and the press of his chest against hers - but there was something new, and tentative, and ever so slightly terrifying about the way he held her now. For as they trod those first steps to a tune barely audible, their movements more a stumble than a waltz, in his arms she felt safe, and protected, and human.

And she was being ridiculous, she knew. But it was nice to pretend, just for a dance, that she could have a future beyond war.

“Stop trying to lead,” Cullen murmured in her ear, and though she couldn’t see his face she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Never.”

When he laughed it rumbled through her chest and down to her very soul, and she knew right then she was doomed — as what she felt, unbidden and unwanted and still too immense to give voice to, had only ever ended in anguish before. And she, who’d navigated lethal landscapes and impossible odds, could see no other end to that path; there would only be her and her daggers, and faint whispers of those lost to the road.

Yet that heartrending transience only made her hold tighter, fearing he’d vanish the moment she let go.

As all things did, their dance came to an end, and when he bowed to her at the finish she couldn’t bring herself to smile; his face clouded as he looked into hers, reading her unrest in an instant. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said, too weakly to be believable. “No, I just… I think my dancing days are over,” she shrugged, adding bitterly; “as if they ever really began.”

He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it, closing it again with a shake of his head; before either of them could say anything further someone cleared their throat behind them, and they turned in unison to find three elaborately masked women lurking in the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Shepard asked, stepping in front of Cullen to place herself between him and the women.

“ _Non_ ,” the leader of the posse - a woman adorned with garish gold accents from head to toe - spoke, her accented voice full of disdain. “But your Commander can.”

“I’m also a Commander, and arguably a better one, so why don’t you run it past me first?”

The woman regarded her for a long moment, gaze flicking from the daggers on her back to the hair evidently still streaked with blood; seemingly deciding arguing wasn’t worth the trouble, she offered Shepard a patronising smile as she extended a gloved hand towards her. “For _his_ consideration,” she said, handing her an envelope addressed in delicate font to _Ser Cullen Rutherford_ ; she then offered Cullen a curtsy before turning on her heel and sweeping from the balcony, her henchmen following close on her heels.

“ _Arguably a better Commander_?”

“I thought that was rather nice of me,” she said, ripping open the envelope and pulling out the thick sheaves of parchment inside. “We both know there’s no argument about it. Now, let’s see what we have here…”

“Maker’s breath; throw that off the balcony.”

“Sure. After I’ve read it.”

“Shepard, _please_ …” 

He made a grab for the letter but she dodged out of his reach, ducking behind a vase for protection as she skimmed over the text. “Good grief!” she spluttered, eyes widening as they alighted on a particularly graphic description of Cullen in… well, in a position she wouldn’t _entirely_ mind getting into with him. “This is absolute filth.”

“Give me it!” he demanded, diving for the letter again but still too slow.

“Not a chance. I can’t let your virginal Templar eyes read this; you’ll go blind.”

“I do not have _virginal Templar eyes_!”

“Former Templar,” she corrected. “My apologies.”

“For once that was _not_ my main point of contention.”

“Oh-ho!” she exclaimed, equal parts entertained and enraptured by his indignant, adorably red face. “The plot thickens! What was it - a wild night of passion in the barracks with Meredith?” He glared at her, and she thought she’d finally gone too far with her teasing - but then he dived a third time, catching her off-guard as he yanked the papers from her grasp and tore them in two. “You always ruin my fun,” she pouted as he shoved the torn sheets into his inside jacket pocket.

“Because your version of ‘fun’ usually involves property damage.”

It was hard to argue with that in light of the evening’s events; she raised her hands in defeat, allowing him the final say for once. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone, for now,” she told him, smiling at his disgruntled _hmph_ of response. “So - what did you want to talk to me about? I take it you didn’t lure me out here just to dance with me.”

He didn’t reply straight away, fussing with his buttons as he attempted to straighten his jacket once more. “It was— my headaches have been getting bad again,” he said eventually, not meeting her eyes. “I wondered if you would be willing to cover some of my drills once we return to Skyhold.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course I will,” she said. “I didn’t realise you—”

“I’m fine,” he said firmly, but she didn’t quite believe him. “We - uh - we should get back inside. You need to grovel to Trevelyan.”

He turned from her, a sliver of distress just visible before he did, one she didn’t understand but which she desperately wanted to solve. “Cullen, is there something else?”

He hesitated in the doorway, head tilted in her direction but still refusing to look at her. “Nothing you need concern yourself with. I will see you at the carriages.”

“Cullen—”

But he was gone before she could say anything further, disappearing into the fray of the palace, and she couldn’t tell whether she’d upset him or if there was something else he was reluctant to reveal. Either way, her heart clenched at the sight of him leaving, all the more for knowing his added struggle within those treacherous walls; and if all she had left of a purpose was a broken shield in front of him, she’d be it, even knowing that too would turn irrelevant in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. This chapter was a struggle. I'm so sorry for the delay between updates - real life got on top of me, plus I hate Halamshiral almost as much as Cullen - BUT the next few chapters are mostly written, and I'm pretty excited about them. I hope this one was worth the wait, and I promise good things are coming very soon!


	38. Chapter 38

To say Trevelyan became childish after Halamshiral was probably unkind but certainly accurate; incensed on finding a Krogan head in his carriage and unwilling to listen to Shepard’s explanations, he contented himself with pouting on their return trip to Skyhold, determinedly frowning out the window as Josephine forced small-talk. He seemed equally as annoyed with Cullen, making soft sounds of disparagement whenever he dared breech the awkward silence, and within a day he’d given up entirely on trying to cajole their leader.

Shepard’s absence from their carriage - she travelled alongside Dorian and Cassandra, in the coach reserved for Trevelyan’s companions - was both a blessing and a curse. Eight hours in confined quarters with her and Trevelyan bickering would likely have given Cullen a full-blown migraine, but with each passing minute the words he’d left unsaid in the Winter Palace burrowed back down deeper inside him. For in the cold light of day, away from the gold-tinted hue of the court, the impossibility of his feelings crashed down hard on him once more, with any courage he’d felt left far behind on that balcony. 

And he didn’t really need to say it now. Her face when he’d bowed to her, sad and tinged with regret, had been all the answer he’d needed.

Yet the brief respite he’d had to sort through his thoughts was thwarted by Josephine; clearly just as sick with Trevelyan’s sulking as the rest of them, on the last day of their journey she insisted Shepard join them in the lead carriage, despite protestations from everyone involved. And whilst Cullen had been worried about fighting, the tense silence turned out to be even worse; Shepard made an admirable but transparent job of pretending to sleep as Trevelyan glowered at her, though she was defeated once they hit the rockiness of the Frostbacks.

“Are we going to talk at all?” Shepard said when she could no longer avoid Trevelyan’s glare.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“That evil eye would beg to differ. Petulance is a really ugly look on you.”

Cullen winced at Shepard’s singular ability to infuriate people as Trevelyan bristled with annoyance, and Josephine placed her hand on his to calm him. “Marcus, perhaps if you could listen to Shepard’s reasoning for—”

“I don’t need to hear her reasoning! This was important to me, and she almost ruined it!”

“That Krogan is important to _me_!” Shepard shot back. “I’m sorry I almost messed things up for you, but he’s the first thing I’ve seen of my home in four years! To see him like _that_ … can’t you understand why that would upset me?”

“Why can’t you be upset like a normal person? Why is your first impulse to break things?!”

Cullen exchanged a worried look with Josephine, expecting Shepard to rile up further - but to his surprise she took a deep breath before attempting to bridge the gap between them. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, softer now. “I really am. If you just give me a chance to—”

“I have given you nothing but chances, Shepard. I gave you the benefit of the doubt when we first met and with Liara and when I found out you’re a war criminal—”

“We can’t all save the world by dressing up and going to a fancy fucking dance, _Inquisitor_ ,” she spat, eyes flashing as her contrition instantly vanished. “I can’t help it if you find real war so objectionable.”

“You think this isn’t a real war?!” Trevelyan exclaimed, now almost beetroot with rage.

“Do I think war is prancing about with nobles and then going home to your castle in the mountains? No, I don’t. Come back and call me a monster when it’s just you standing between the horde and chaos, but until then don’t you _dare_ fucking judge me.”

It was Shepard’s turn to glare and Trevelyan’s to look sheepish, and though Cullen was grateful for the pause in hostilities Josephine wasn’t content with leaving the argument unresolved. “I do not think Marcus meant to suggest—”

“I don’t care what he _meant_ ; I’m—”

“Enough!” Leliana interrupted, looking almost as angry as Shepard. “I will not listen to this all the way back to Skyhold. Josie arranged this for you to talk like adults, not bicker like children.” Shepard looked like she very much wanted to argue more, but said nothing, instead growling as she turned to glare out the window. “Inquisitor, I suggest you use this time productively; you still have a number of letters from the court to respond to.”

“Cullen should answer them,” Trevelyan huffed. “It’s _him_ they can’t stop talking about.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Cullen muttered, hoping - fruitlessly - the conversation wasn’t about to turn in an even worse direction.

“Those letters are what’s ridiculous; where are they, Josie?” Trevelyan rummaged around his pack for a moment before pulling out a wad of papers and spreading them across his lap, and Cullen was fairly certain it was an act of revenge against his initial recruitment of Shepard. “Where was - ah - _was a delight to meet you, and of course your dashing Commander… do not forget to send my regards to your Commander… may I be as bold as to enquire of your Commander’s lineage_ —”

“Can we stop this now?”

“Oh, here’s a good one,” Leliana joined in, picking a letter from Trevelyan’s lap and reading it aloud with a smirk. “ _Though it was a disappointment to hear your Commander’s heart already belongs to another_ —”

“You’re _seeing_ someone?” Shepard spluttered, eyes wide in disbelief as her head snapped to face him. “Fuck; you kept that quiet. Who’s the lucky girl, Rutherford? What’s wrong with her?”

“A plethora of things, no doubt.”

It took every ounce of Cullen’s self-restraint not to kick Trevelyan; instead he grit his teeth as he forced himself to look at Shepard. “That was merely a vain attempt to stop people from bothering me,” he grumbled. “Clearly it did not work. Feel free to use those letters as kindling.”

“No; I shall take them once you are done,” Leliana said. “I want to know who pines for our Commander. We can use it to our advantage.”

“I am not bait!”

“Hush. Just look pretty.”

Before he could come up with a retort their carriage screeched to a halt, their driver frantically banging on the canopy for their attention; Cullen, being the only one in armour, indicated for the others to stay put as he scrambled outside.

“What—?” 

He didn’t need to finish his question; their driver’s trembling hand pointed towards his answer, and for a moment Cullen was completely at a loss for how to proceed. As, even having just seen one at the Winter Palace, he was in no way prepared for the sight of a live Krogan bearing down on his troops. 

Seeing the Krogan now, it was clear the true extent of their power had been lost in the Palace’s display; they were just so much _bigger_ in the flesh, hulking in heavy armour and snarling ferociously, every movement driven by unrestrained force. And, no matter how much Shepard might protest the description, there was something undeniably _monstrous_ about the being which stood before them.

“Shepard, get out here. Now.”

Shepard jumped out of the carriage, her quizzical look turning to one which could only be described as _glee_ as her eyes landed on a familiar being. “ _Holy fuck_ ,” she grinned, before practically skipping across the snow towards the Krogan. “Hey, hey!” she called out, waving for their troops to get back as the Krogan turned its attention to her. “Calm down. Who are you?”

The Krogan snarled, raising some strange metallic weapon Cullen had never seen before and pointing it directly at Shepard; his gut clenched at the sight of her unarmed against a volatile being, desperately beckoning the Inquisitor out of the coach for back-up. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” Shepard asked, unimpressed and fearless and altogether _extraordinary_ , even if she was about to get herself killed. “Just so you know, this isn’t the first time a Krogan has held a shotgun in my face - and if Urdnot Wrex didn’t scare me then _you_ sure as Hell won’t.”

That sentence, for some reason, made the Krogan pause; he lowered his weapon as he spoke urgently in an indecipherable tongue, though Shepard seemed to understand every word of it. “Yeah, he’s a good friend. He helped me stop Saren - we reversed the Genophage together.” He uttered one more word and, though unintelligible, Cullen could still make out the reverence with which it was spoken. “That’s me,” Shepard smiled.

The Krogan’s awe lasted only a beat before _fury_ broke through; he raised his weapon as his voice turned to a frenzied roar, though it was the sliver of fear on Shepard’s face which made Cullen truly afraid. “Woah, woah, hang on - what do you mean, who’s—”

In the blink of an eye, everything changed; Cullen, driven by pure instinct, raced towards Shepard’s side with his sword raised, only to find the Krogan’s weapon turned on him instead. And Shepard, of course, reacted as she always did; flashing blue before Cullen could shout not to she Charged, colliding with the Krogan just as he pulled his trigger, his missed shot ringing though the valley as she knocked him clean off the edge of their mountain path.

The only problem was, she followed him.

“ _Shepard_!”

Cullen dropped his sword as he darted towards the lip of their path, scrambling to grab Shepard as she fought to cling onto the ledge; he clasped her arm just as she began to slip from view, struggling to find purchase amongst the snow. “Let _go_ of me, Rutherford!” 

“I’m not letting you fall to your death!”

“I can survive it,” she persisted, though she still scrabbled desperately to find something solid to cling onto. “I—”

She was cut off as the sheet of snow around them shook, crumbling underneath the weight of both of them; Cullen pitched forward, still holding tightly onto Shepard as he toppled over the edge of the ravine after her. And he was _sure_ he was finally done for; that he would meet his end not by a blade or a demon, but through the profound thickheadedness of the woman he loved. But then he felt a unfamiliar force around him, tingling and strange but not altogether uncomfortable; a cushion which could only be Shepard’s biotics, slowing his rapid tumble until he finally hit ground once more.

Despite Shepard’s protection, the impact still winded him, and he fought to fill his lungs with air as he lay face down in the snow. “Are you alright?” Shepard asked, rolling him onto his back and looking down worriedly at him; he did his best to glare at her, but the sternness was lost amongst his wheezes.

“You Charged — off — a mountain.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she mumbled, staring sadly at the broken Krogan body a few feet away from them. “I overestimated how much force I needed to knock him over; he’s pretty small for a Krogan.”

“ _Small_?”

“Yeah, he’s only a kid; you can tell by the hump. And the lack of scars.” Cullen pushed himself up to sitting, and any concern she’d had for him was instantly replaced by annoyance. “And _you_ were the idiot who charged him in the first place!”

“ _You_ made him mad!”

“Krogan are always mad!” She groaned, abandoning Cullen’s side for the Krogan; she knelt down next to him, checking his pulse and wincing before turning her attention to a device strapped to his arm. “Broken,” she muttered, before pulling two smaller weapons from his belt and inspecting them disapprovingly. “Goddamnit; thermal clips. If I hadn’t been dead when they started talking about switching from heat sinks, I would have had some _very_ strong words for Elkoss Combine.”

She shoved the sub-par weapons into her belt nonetheless, then hesitated, staring down at the Krogan’s bloodied face with such regret that Cullen could barely look at her; he pushed himself to his feet, placing his hand on her shoulder as he came to stand beside her.

“What do you want to do?”

“There’s nothing we can do except leave him,” she murmured. “I don’t understand. He was so angry when he realised who I was. He said, _your people did this to me_.”

“Did what to him?”

“I have no idea. And what did he mean, _my people_? Humans? The Alliance?” She shook her head. “They better not have fucked up the universe since I’ve been gone.”

She sank into a sombre silence again, watching the Krogan intently as if hoping he would miraculously take a breath. “Shepard, we need to get moving,” Cullen ventured after several minutes. “If we don’t find the Inquisitor before sundown—”

“Yeah. I know.” She sighed, brushing closed the Krogan’s eyelids before standing up straight and offering Cullen a weak smile. “Which way, Commander?”

Cullen grimaced, looking across the uniform white blanket of the valley and then up the sharp cliff face they’d descended; he couldn’t even see the top, let alone the Inquisitor. “I suppose using your biotics to get us back up is out of the question,” he grumbled, and Shepard shrugged ruefully. “The long way round it is, then.”

\---

Cullen wasn’t ashamed to admit that, over the course of his and Shepard’s acquaintance, there had been many moments he’d felt nostalgic for their fateful journey though the Free Marches. Time had tinted it soft and golden; the overriding memories were those of fun, and feeling free, and it being the first time he’d felt _human_ since leaving Ferelden. And he’d wondered, in his more foolish moments, how he’d never fallen in love with her all those years ago.

Now as she stomped alongside him, questioning each and every one of his decisions in an increasingly shrill tone of voice, all he could wonder was how he’d never throttled her.

“This is ridiculous,” she complained for what had to be the fourteenth time that hour. “We should just head in the direction of Skyhold.”

“ _How_?” Cullen demanded. “We’ve completely lost our bearings; we need to get back on that path—”

“Then I might as well learn how to fucking levitate!” She groaned, scrunching her eyes up in a way which suggested she too was contemplating murder. “The sun’s going to set soon, and then we won’t even be able to see up the cliff—”

“Then how are we meant to see our way back to Skyhold?!”

“Fine!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Then maybe we should just find shelter.”

“An excellent idea,” he scoffed. “That pile of snow looks like good shelter.”

She shot him a glare so venomous he probably would have been scared if he weren’t quite so frustrated. “I don’t remember you being this cantankerous back on our Kirkwall jaunt.”

“Strange; I remember you being _precisely_ this irritating.”

“Oh, _I’m_ irritating!” she bristled. “You’re the one who won’t stop huffing like an overfed mule!”

“You’re the one who _Charged off a mountain_!”

“I’ll Charge you straight into a f—ahh!”

They’d been too caught up in their bickering to notice the subtle shift of snow to ice underfoot; Shepard, half a pace ahead of Cullen, went flying for the second time that evening, careening across the ice with a high-pitched shriek. Cullen stumbled but managed to avoid joining her, watching on in horror as thin fractures spread across the ice to where she struggled to regain her footing.

“Shepard, get—”

The ice gave way before he could finish his warning, a sickening _crack_ ringing out as Shepard plunged into the frozen lake; fear crushed him as she disappeared from view, turning his mind numb and robbing him even of the ability to breathe. “Mollie,” he uttered, a cracked prayer all he could manage, paralysed by the excruciating thought of losing her; an eternity seemed to pass before she broke through the surface of the water, shivering and gasping for air. “Mollie!” he shouted now as relief broke fear’s hold on him, taking a step forward onto the ice.

“Don’t!” she called out, desperately trying to cling onto solid ground. “I c-can—” The ice cracked again, submerging her a second time, and when she resurfaced it was with a pained cry. “Gahh! It’s f-f-fucking c-cold!”

It was a testament to just how terrified Cullen was that he didn’t point out the obviousness of her statement, instead casting around wildly for a way to help her. His eyes fell on a nearby gnarled tree, long stripped of leaves; he rushed over to it, quickly snapping off one of its longer and thicker branches. “Grab on!” he called, sliding one end of the branch over to Shepard; her shaking hands clamped down on it and, scrunching his eyes shut, he pulled with all his might. It worked; he stumbled backwards but managed to stay upright as he hoisted Shepard out of the water, pulling her along the ice until she was back on stable ground.

He rushed over to where she lay shivering in the snow, pulling off his coat and placing it over her; apart from the shaking in her arms she made no movement, and Cullen forced himself to speak in as level a voice as he could manage.

“Mollie, are you alright? Talk to me, Mollie.”

“C-C-Cullen, p-p-please…” she stammered into the snow.

“What? What is it?”

“Stop _f-f-fucking_ c-calling me Mollie.”

He gave a high-pitched, slightly deranged laugh, panic still threatening to suffocate him as she valiantly pushed herself onto her knees. “We need to warm you up,” he said, pulling his coat tighter around her as she swayed on the spot; he made a motion to pick her up, but she pushed him away with a frown.

“N-no - need to walk - g-generate heat,” she said firmly, grabbing onto his shoulders and pushing herself to stand; she wobbled again as she found her feet, and he put his arm around her waist for support.

“Did you see anywhere we could shelter?”

“You m-mentioned - pile of snow—”

“Maker, not even hypothermia can shut you up,” Cullen mumbled, though he smiled in spite of himself. “The mountain was more rocky that way; hopefully there’ll be a cave.” _Hopefully_ , his mind echoed as they started walking, because if not they were _fucked_.

The Maker must have been listening to his silent prayers, because five minutes later they found somewhere suitable; Cullen pulled Shepard - whose steps were growing slower by the second - into a large-mouthed cave facing downwind, throwing down the wood he’d gathered during their search. Shepard eased herself onto the floor as he set about crafting a fire, pulling flint and firestarters from the pack on his belt and striking up sparks with shaking hands. As soon as he was satisfied with the flames he’d created he turned back to Shepard, gritting his teeth as he steeled himself to speak.

“Look, Shepard; you - er - you should - I-I mean you need to—”

“Y-You’re stuttering m-more than me,” she commented, shuffling closer to the fire as he began to rub the back of his neck, and he took a deep breath before blurting out his sentence.

“Take off your clothes.” She burst into laughter, because of _course_ she did, shoulders juddering with giggles even as her teeth chattered, and he tried to summon his best Commander voice. “I am _serious_. The heat cannot penetrate wet clothes; you need—”

“Th-that is the b-best line—”

“It’s not a line; it’s—stop laughing! Shepard!” he said fiercely, grabbing onto her shoulders. “The longer you stay like this, the worse your chances of surviving become. _Please_.”

She must have seen something in his eyes, because the laughter dropped from hers; she nodded resolutely before shrugging his coat off. “F-fine. Turn around.”

He didn’t need telling twice; he stood up, stepping to the back of the cave and staring determinedly at the rock as he heard her rustling behind him. He began to unhook his own armour, letting the pieces clatter to the floor as he hastily tried to reach the fabric layers; he pulled off the padded leather shirt he wore under his cuirass, suppressing a shiver now all he had on top was a cotton undershirt and, emphatically covering his eyes with one hand, turned back towards her as he held the garment in front of him.

“Th-thanks,” he heard her say as she accepted it, and then, several moments later, “you c-can uncover your eyes now.”

Hesitantly, he looked out, and just managed to catch himself before he gasped, for he was in no way prepared for the sight of Shepard wearing his shirt and _nothing else_. How such a simple garment managed to hang from her body with such effortless grace was a wonder; one shoulder peeking out at the neckline, the hemline only an inch away from indecency, the picture of beauty even with dishevelled hair and chattering teeth. And her legs - Maker, _her legs_ \- her legs were a work of art, strong muscles sculpted and toned to perfection, the idea of them wrapped around his waist irresistibly alluring and one he _had_ to stop thinking about. He was both hugely disappointed and endlessly grateful when she slung his coat around her once more, providing slightly more modesty, and he cleared his throat as he tried to look anywhere but her legs.

“Er - we should try to dry your clothes out,” he said as his eyes fell to her bundle of discarded clothing. “You sit down by the fire; I’ll sort them.”

She obeyed his command, which was a miracle in itself, and he set about straightening her clothes as she warmed herself; as he did so he tried to avoid the thought of what would have happened if she’d been wearing her armour, for surely in heavy plate she never would’ve resurfaced in the water. His hand landed on a particularly flimsy piece of material, and he frowned as he picked it up, heat flooding his cheeks as he realised with horror that he’d picked up her smallclothes.

“I - um - sorry,” he mumbled, looking awkwardly at Shepard; she merely shrugged, seemingly unfazed by his discovery as she tried to wring the water from her hair.

“I’m sure you’ve s-seen it all b-before.”

“Not in a long time,” he muttered without thinking, wincing at Shepard’s splutter of laughter. “Maker’s breath - just forget I said that. Please.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re adorable w-when you’re f-flustered.”

Cullen scoffed, quickly placing down the undergarments and the rest of her clothes, though his stomach flipped at her calling him _adorable_ nonetheless. “I think you’re getting delirious.”

“Mm. Still c-cold,” she said, shuffling closer to the fire, face inches from the flames.

“Sit any nearer and you’ll burn yourself,” he warned, ignoring her eyeroll as she shifted closer still. “Watch your hair!” he called as her wet hair dangled dangerously close to the flames. “Oh, for the love of Andraste,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. He sat down next to her and, with very little ceremony, put his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap and against his chest in an attempt to share his body warmth.

“Commander!” she squealed, head resting underneath his chin and breath tickling his neck. “What _are_ you doing?!”

“You _know_ what I’m doing,” he grumbled.

“F-first you make me t-t-take off my clothes and then you—”

“ _Please_ don’t finish that sentence,” he begged, because he was trying with all his might not to focus on just how naked she was underneath his coat. She chuckled again but said nothing, and a moment later she let out a small sigh.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and he smiled into her hair as his forced hold on her relaxed slightly.

“Anytime.”

They sat awhile in silence, Cullen merely listening as Shepard’s shivering breaths improved and feeling as the trembling of her muscles gradually settled. Quite suddenly, he heard her laugh once more, and he pulled back slightly to better inspect her face.

“Dare I ask why you’re still laughing?” he asked with some trepidation, and she grinned up at him.

“You said _p-penetrate_.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he murmured, tucking her head back underneath his chin if only to stop her from seeing him blush. “I should just let you freeze.”

“Be less trouble.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “Now tuck your feet in, or your toes will get frostbite.”

\---

Shepard wasn’t sure whether being half-naked and half-frozen in Cullen’s arms was the best or worst position she’d ever been in, but it was definitely one of the two. Only when her teeth stopped chattering was she able to appreciate fully the way his strong arms encircled her, pressing her against his chest so tightly she could hear the steady thrum of his heart, his hands running over her back and arms at intervals to generate warmth through friction; she made no effort to separate from him, content to stay curled in his embrace for as long as he’d have her there.

“How are you feeling?” he asked at length.

“Still cold. You know, the best way to share body warmth is for both parties to be completely naked,” she told him, only partially joking, and he made a noise of disapproval.

“You’re clearly better if you’re able to mock me.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Rutherford; I could mock you on my deathbed.”

He leaned back to look at her, relaxing his hold as he did; face beset with tension, complexion kissed amber under the glow of their fire and the almost-set sun, he was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most serious she’d ever seen him. He fisted one hand in her hair and squeezed softly, and the shiver which passed over her as he did was only in part due to the cold.

“We need to dry your hair,” he murmured. “You’ll lose far too much heat from your head otherwise.” She nodded, beginning to unbraid her hair though her fingers were stiff and clumsy from the cold; she fumbled for half a minute before Cullen sighed, placing his hands over hers to still them. “Let me,” he said, indicating for her to turn around; she did so, shuffling so she now sat in between his legs and facing the fire, desperately trying to ignore his thighs pressed against hers. But the feel of his legs was completely forgotten the moment he sank his fingers into her hair, gently teasing from roots to tips with far more practised hands than she’d expected; she couldn’t hold back the soft sigh that fell from her lips as he squeezed strands free from water, placing almost-dry and softly-curling locks back over her shoulder before methodically moving onto a new section.

“Was hairdressing a class in Templar school?” Shepard asked, though her voice came out more dreamy than teasing, still too wrapped up in the sensation of his fingers on her scalp.

“No, but it was in my sisters’ playhouse,” Cullen told her. “Would you like pigtails to finish?”

She tried to shoot him a look of disdain over her shoulder but he held her head firmly in place, brushing his fingers through her hair once more before setting about braiding what she _knew_ were pigtails; she let him get on with it, too concerned that he’d stop entirely if she objected. “You don’t talk about your family much,” she noted.

“I have not seen them in many years. I do not think—” He cut himself off with a little groan, pulling her pigtail slightly too tight as he tied it off.

“You don’t think what?” she prompted, and he sighed.

“I am not the brother they remember, Shepard. They would not like the man I’ve become.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

He scoffed. “You give me far too much credit.”

“You give yourself far too little credit,” she retorted, and then, more softly; “you’re a good man, Cullen.”

“It means a great deal that you think so,” he said, so quietly she could barely hear him above the crackle of the fire. “But I know what I am.” He tied off her second pigtail before pulling her round to face him, a lopsided little smirk on his lips as he inspected his handiwork. “Perfect. Very Commanderly.”

“You can talk, _Curly_.”

He chuckled, eyes creasing at the corners as the tension in him lifted, and she would have given anything for them to stay like that forever; just the two of them, laughing in firelight, removed from all the pain and struggle of the outside world. He pressed her into his chest again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and though she no longer felt cold anymore she allowed him to hold her even so. “You should try to get some sleep,” he murmured into her hair. “I will watch the fire.”

“No; you should rest,” she told him. “I’ll wake you up when I get tired.”

“If you truly think I’ll be able to sleep whilst I’m still worried about you freezing to death—”

“I’m not going to freeze,” she said dismissively, but the way his grip on her tightened in response told her he was anything but reassured. “I’m sorry for causing you trouble. Again,” she muttered, sincerely now. “You know, your life would have been a Hell of a lot easier if you’d just let me go back in Kirkwall.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But it wouldn’t have been quite so much fun.” She smiled into his chest, casting back to a time so dissonant from the present; if someone had told her back then how much she’d end up caring for him - _needing_ him - she probably would have called them mad. “I know I should regret bringing you to the Gallows,” Cullen mused, evidently following the same train of thought. “But I can’t. Not when it’s brought us here.”

“To a cave in the middle of nowhere?”

“No, I mean— _here_. Us. I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

If she gave into instinct and looked up at him there was a distinct chance she would try and kiss him, which would make the rest of the evening incredibly awkward; instead she avoided his eyes by burrowing further into his hold, hoping he couldn’t feel the absurd skip of her heart in her chest. “I don’t regret it either. I could’ve gone without getting stabbed, but… I’m glad I’m here, too.”

As the sun disappeared behind snow-capped mountains and the moons shone silver in indigo sky, they passed the night speaking of everything and nothing, voices growing thick with exhaustion but neither wanting to sink into silence. And when she finally fell asleep it was with her head on his shoulder, and his arm around her waist, and the half-formed thought that it was the happiest she’d ever been.

\---

Cullen woke first the following morning, initially convinced he was still in the Fade; after all, there was no sensible reason why Shepard was lying half on top of him, her arm slung over his chest and his curled around her waist, both of them covered by his coat. He blinked a few times, and when the image did not clear he realised with a jolt that this was _reality_ , Shepard’s misstep the previous evening and the events following rapidly flooding back to him. She certainly looked warmer this morning; still asleep and nestled against his chest, her hair was now completely dry and her cheeks had a healthy glow to them, her breaths deep and even with no lingering telltale shivers of cold.

He hesitated, knowing he should wake her but unable to bring himself to do so, too taken by the sight of her asleep in his arms to even move. He’d seen her sleep before, of course, what felt like a lifetime ago; he’d kept close guard as she’d tossed and turned each night in captivity, sword ready and chest full of fear for demons. But she was calmer now, and so was he, smiling to himself whenever she muttered a nonsensical word or pawed at her nose. In truth, he’d never let himself watch her this closely before; because - no matter how stubbornly he’d tried to ignore it - he’d always thought she was beautiful.

Maker, this was bad.

“Shepard,” he murmured. “ _Shepard_ ,” he repeated, louder this time and with a little shake; she jolted awake, squinting up at him with a bleary smile that made his heart stutter. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling ten fingers and ten toes, so that’s good,” she said, letting out a little yawn as she stretched her arms. “You still talk in your sleep, by the way.”

“So do you. Something about not listening to a jellyfish?”

“Jellyfish can be tricky,” she told him, closing her eyes again.

“Do you plan on getting up?”

“No,” she replied, pulling his coat over her head. “You’re comfy.”

He shook his head, ignoring how good it felt to hear her say that. “The Inquisitor will be looking for us.”

“Then we ought to stay in one place to make it easier for him to find us.”

“Shepard…” he warned, but she didn’t reply. “Shepard!” he said again, pulling his coat back down to look at her, and she groaned.

“Oh, come on!” she protested, propping her chin on her fist as she shot him a reproachful look. “Just let me sleep for ten more minutes. I nearly died yesterday; I deserve a rest.”

“You did not nearly die,” he dismissed. “You had a brief cold swim.”

“When you tell this story, are you going to say that you bravely rescued me from certain death, or that you helped me out of a lake after a ‘cold swim’?”

“You wouldn’t let me tell it as a daring rescue.”

“You’re right about that,” she grinned at him. 

The smile he returned he felt down in his soul, because she looked so utterly perfect like that; eyes still heavy with sleep, freckled cheeks rounded and rosy, crimson hair alight with a bronze halo in the soft rays of morning sun. Without thinking, he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, hand lingering a moment too long as he tucked the curl behind her ear; she went very still, the energy which always seemed to radiate from her muting under his touch, and he realised his mistake too late. For where they lay now, wrapped up in his coat, isolated from the entire world, it was impossible to view the gesture as anything other than _intimate_ ; she held his gaze, no longer smiling and instead chewing her lip - and she looked so serious he was about to pull away, mind desperately clutching for an excuse which wouldn’t threaten what they had. But then her eyes darted to the scar on his lip, and he found he couldn’t move; he could barely breathe with the way she looked at him now, as if - against all sense and reason - she wanted him as much as he did her.

“Cullen?” she asked in a small, soft voice.

“Yes?”

“Your arm’s around my waist.”

“I… yes, it is,” he said, striving with all his might to keep his voice level. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

She shuffled closer to him, eyes never leaving his as he slowly, _slowly_ bent his head towards her, giving her all the time in the world to come to her senses. But she didn’t waver, remaining resolute as her hand smoothed over his neck and cupped his cheek, thumb grazing the stubble of his jaw - and surely this had to be a dream, or the result of lingering hypothermia playing with her mind, but she seemed just as lucid now as she ever was and - and oh, _Maker_ , they were so very close to each other right now. Her eyes fluttered shut as he took a steadying breath, their foreheads touching first, his lips parting as somewhere in the distance he heard someone call out a name…

His name. _Shit._

“Cullen! Shepard!”

Shepard’s eyes snapped back open, now very much awake as she pushed off the ground, pulling Cullen’s coat around her shoulders and whimpering slightly as she stood. “Ah! My feet!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the spot. “Fuck; how do elves do it?!”

Panic, for some reason, was the sensation which raged strongest in Cullen’s chest, hopelessly struck with the fear there would never be another moment like this; his chance slipping out of his grip as she moved away from him and back to rationality, and what would be left of them when she reflected on what had almost passed? “Shepard, come back - you aren’t dressed!” he called as she padded towards the cave entrance, but she merely waved dismissively at him; groaning, he stood too, pulling on his boots as he heard Bull’s voice more clearly.

“I see Shepard!”

“Is she wearing…?”

Cullen stood beside Shepard as the Inquisitor and his search party approached their cave, unable to resist glowering at them for their awful timing; Dorian and Bull looked smug whilst Cassandra appeared elated, but Liara - clutching Shepard’s phylactery tightly in one hand - looked as though she was a second away from murdering him. 

“Shepard!” the Inquisitor exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling Shepard into a hug so vigorous it made her squeak. “Thank the Maker; I was so worried, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how the last thing I’d said had been completely _heartless_ and I’m just - I’m sorry, and I’m so glad…” he trailed off, frowning as he realised his face was buried in Cullen’s coat; he looked curiously between Shepard and Cullen as he took in their various states on undress, clearly reaching an incorrect conclusion. “But I take it you had an enjoyable evening, nonetheless.”

“She fell through ice,” Cullen blurted out, feeling his cheeks burn under the gaze of his colleagues.

“I had a brief cold swim,” Shepard countered. “Go away for five minutes; my clothes should be dry by now.” 

She hopped back into the cave as the rest of the group gave her some privacy, Cullen suppressing a shiver as he stepped into the crisp morning air. “Are you going to put _your_ clothes on?" Dorian asked. “The ones Shepard isn’t wearing, I mean?”

“Shut up, Dorian,” Cullen grumbled, kicking at the snow.

“She does look rather pretty in your coat,” he continued, a malevolent glint in his eye. “ _Just_ your coat.”

“ _Shut up_ , Dorian.”

“There is no need to tease him,” Cassandra came to his rescue now. “I am sure Cullen was just being chivalrous.”

“Exactly. Thank you.”

“I am equally sure it had _nothing_ to do with his undying love for her.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and all gratitude Cullen had felt quickly evaporated; he looked desperately at Liara, whose eyes flashed with rage. 

“Liara, please believe—”

“Before you make up another lie, _Commander_ ,” Liara took a step towards him, voice low and deadly, “you should know that I have been working on a very interesting piece of armour with Dagna. At your bidding, I understand.” He felt the colour drain from his face, cursing Dorian for ever putting the idea of a gift for Shepard into his mind; Liara glared at him for a long and agonising moment before tearing her ferocious gaze away from him and towards the cave. “Shepard!” she called over his shoulder. “Are you done?”

“I’m coming!”

“Something I bet she was also shouting—”

“ _Bull_!” Cullen interrupted, the colour rapidly returning to his cheeks. “That is _not_ helpful! Inquisitor, _please_ —”

“I know, I know,” Trevelyan said soothingly. “You’d never do something remotely as interesting as have sex in a cave. Hurry up, Shep!”

Shepard reappeared just as Cullen was about to protest further, redressed in her own clothes and carrying Cullen’s; when she offered them to him she didn’t meet his eye, and his heart turned to lead in his chest as panic shifted to dread. He opened his mouth to say something - _anything_ \- to her, but the words were lost under the scrutiny of their friends; instead he merely pulled on his layers of cotton and steel, heart clenching at the faint scent of _her_ which clung to the fabric.

“We were only teasing you, Cullen,” Cassandra tutted at his dour expression as they began their journey back to Skyhold; he merely glared at her, and she spoke again more softly. “Are you alright?”

“I would be better if you’d arrived five minutes later,” he grumbled before he could stop himself, wincing as the words left his mouth; Cassandra covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, eyes sparkling with delight at the revelation. 

“ _Oh_! That’s—” she began dreamily, but cut herself off, clearing her throat and flushing at Cullen’s bemused expression. “Well. We shall speak more of it once we return to Skyhold.”

“No, we won’t, I— how do you even know about this?!”

“Because you are as subtle as a brick, Commander.”

He grunted but said nothing further, gaze flickering to where Shepard and Liara walked in silence some way ahead of them. He had no doubt he would face more than one interrogation once back in his tower, but neither Liara nor Dorian were his primary concern. 

No; first, he needed to speak with Shepard. And to find out, once and for all, whether there was any hope for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK YES I KNOW but I love interrupted kisses with my entire soul AND I wrote [an uninterrupted smut version](https://agentkatie.tumblr.com/post/177180068880/uninterrupted-nsfw) to this over on [my tumblr](http://agentkatie.tumblr.com) so please don't be mad at me!!!


	39. Chapter 39

The alarm bells in Shepard’s head didn’t cease their obnoxious ringing for the entire journey back to Skyhold; they drowned out Trevelyan’s small-talk and Bull’s unsubtle innuendo, leaving her unable to follow the conversation or think anything other than _danger_. Whenever she chanced a glance at Cullen his gaze remained fixed straight ahead, glowering at an unseen object in the distance and looking so delightfully, indignantly ruffled that it made her want to run full-pelt in the opposite direction. 

For there was no doubt in her mind that throwing herself at him - or, more accurately, _on_ him - was the stupidest thing she’d done in her entire life. And it wasn’t because it risked their friendship, or because she feared rejection; it was because she’d realised, when he’d held her, that he wanted her too.

She’d excused what she’d sensed in everything else - the laughter, the support, the dance - as a figment of her imagination, a half-baked fantasy of a bored and lonely mind; it was easy to rationalise the faith he placed in her, ignore the creases around his eyes when he smiled. Easy to want, with neither hope nor intention, the present of an impossible future. As whilst wanting Cullen was simple, having him was anything but. And it might have been different, had she been someone else - had she been young, and whole, and worth something outside of war - but she was not; she was Shepard, and it was clear in what she’d already lost she was not meant for anything more.

It was also clear she needed to speak with him, but she lost her nerve on arriving back at Skyhold, hurrying towards her quarters as one of his messengers intercepted him; she didn’t look back as she weaved around the guests in the main hall, but stopped with a groan as her name carried across the crowd.

“Shepard!” For a moment she strongly considered running from Liara too; her friend’s face as she came to stand in front of her was unreadable, which worried her more than the anger she’d expected. “Shepard, we need to talk.”

“Can’t we just—”

“No.” She indicated for Shepard to follow her, leading the way towards the Undercroft; reluctantly she did, the anxiety in her stomach tightening with every step. “I want to show you what Dagna and I have been working on,” Liara told her as she approached her workspace, and as Shepard looked down at her project she gasped, the sight of something so familiar and yet so unexpected taking her breath away.

It was her armour. Her old armour, the one she’d worn proudly all those years ago, back when she was still important; modified now, obsidian and silverite patching the damage wrought by time, but still _hers_ , still instantly recognisable by the faded N7 insignia and the stripe down the arm. And she should have been happy, grateful for the thoughtfulness and devotion of her friend - but in that moment, all she could wonder was whether she still deserved to wear it.  
“Where did you find this?”

“I didn’t. Cullen did.”

Her gaze snapped up to Liara, mouth opening in surprise and then closing again when she couldn’t find any words; Liara remained impassive, watching her silently for her reaction. “Oh,” was all she could say, the confirmation of what she’d felt in the cave both exhilarating and terrifying, her heart swelling with affection even as its panicked beat drummed against her ribs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” was her knee-jerk reaction, and not believable for a second; Liara merely arched an eyebrow at her, and Shepard winced, her gaze returning to the chestplate she’d once been so fond of. “There’s nothing to tell,” she muttered, tentatively reaching out to brush her thumb over the N7 insignia. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Shepard…”

“ _Nothing_ ,” she said, more forcefully now. “He’s just - a friend - and I know it looked bad, but it was just—”

“ _Shepard_ ,” Liara repeated, cutting her excuses short, and when Shepard looked up at her once more she was surprised to find only compassion written across her face. “It’s alright.”

Shepard sighed, the fight in her fading as she slumped against Liara’s desk. “Nothing’s happened,” she said again, before steeling herself to admit the truth she’d long tried to hide. “But… I feel…” The words were too big and just beyond her reach; she groaned and shook her head, because even now giving voice to what she felt seemed dangerous. “Why aren’t you angry?” she asked instead. “I thought you hated him.”

“My first instinct _was_ to kill him and throw his body over the ramparts, but Dagna talked me out of it. She said I should see how you feel before committing murder.” She offered her a weak smile. “Although I have to say it once - _Cullen_? You did read _The Tale of The Champion_ , didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I read it,” Shepard grumbled, “and he came across like a dick. I was also there, and he _was_ a dick. But now he’s… something I wasn’t expecting.”

“Is this why you don’t want to go back? Because of him?”

“Liara, I _do_ —“

“No, you don’t,” she said, so firm that correcting her was pointless. “I always thought you were just easily distracted. It never occurred to me you might not want to return.”

Shepard was silent for a long moment as she stared at her old chestplate - the armour that had once meant so much to her, and which now only served to remind her of what she had lost. Because all who had seen past the red and white stripe were now far beyond her, no more than numbers in the long line of people she’d killed; those few she would’ve fought the universe for now mere memories she tried in vain to suppress, their voices the echoes of inescapable dreams. “What do I have to return to?” she mumbled, hardly expecting an answer, but Liara gave one anyway. 

“The Normandy? Our friends? Our lives?”

“Don’t,” Shepard said, eyes scrunching closed as she fought back the guilt which never truly left her. “Please.”

“Why not? You never even talk about them - it’s like you want to forget—“

“That I killed them?” she erupted, unable to keep up the façade any longer. “All of them? Yeah, I want to fucking forget that - is that really so hard to understand?!”

“What are you talking about? You saw them get back on the Normandy; Joker would’ve been able to pilot them out of harm’s way.” 

Shepard’s eyes widened as she realised - finally - the root of their conflict all these years; because she hadn’t been there, when they’d removed EDI’s safeblocks and breached the Omega relay, and merged their ship with the enemy to give themselves a fighting chance. “What?” Liara asked, annoyance shifting to worry at Shepard’s reticence. “Shepard, what is it?”

“We installed a Reaper IFF to get through the Omega-4 relay,” Shepard admitted, unable to meet Liara’s gaze. “EDI’s code is based on Reaper tech. And we chose…”

Liara was quiet for a painfully long moment, and when Shepard finally dared glance at her she looked so _defeated_ it made her heart break for her crew all over again. “You knew,” she said eventually, voice small and full of sorrow. “At the Crucible, when you - when we…“

“Yeah,” Shepard said, tears itching at the corners of her eyes. “I put Garrus back on that ship.” Her voice trembled as the words she’d tried to suppress fought their way to the surface, and had she been with anyone else she would’ve been ashamed. “I thought I was keeping him safe. That _fucking_ turian was everything to me, as was Joker and Tali and even fucking _Javik_ , and I killed them all.” She needed Liara to say something - _anything_ \- but she merely stared at her dumbly, the loss Shepard had long accepted a fresh wound on her soul. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I—”

The rest of her apology was lost as Liara put her arms around her, holding her tight against her chest; the touch of the one person she had left from a time long past helped stabilise her, holding at bay the sobs which roared in the back of her throat. “No; I’m sorry,” Liara said, her voice quavering now. “I wish you’d said. All this time…”

“Would you have told me to do something else, if you’d known?”

She didn’t know whether she was asking for acceptance or forgiveness, but either way Liara shook her head. “No. And Garrus wouldn’t have, either.”

They fell into silence after that, neither daring to risk the faint understanding they’d finally come to - but at length Liara separated from her, voicing what Shepard knew she would. “I still want to go home,” she said, and the words were like a knife to Shepard’s chest. “But… but I also want you to be happy. And if you love Cullen—”

“Liara, no.”

Liara tutted, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to tell you to forget about him? To focus on getting back home? I’m trying very hard to be supportive.”

“I don’t need you to be. It’s just a crush,” she said - _lied_ \- as she still battled the truth in her heart. “It’s not important.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Liara shot back, then sighed, continuing softly once more. “You know, he blackmailed the Inquisitor into keeping me here. He told him he’d resign if he exiled me.”

That was something Shepard had not expected; she floundered for a moment before finding ground again, stubbornly resisting the flutter in her chest. “Sounds like he’s in love with _you_.”

Liara ignored her deflection, fixing her with a steely glare. “You need to speak with him. Whatever you choose I support, but… don’t sabotage yourself again. I’ve seen you do it too many times.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” she bristled.

“You know full well what it means.”

Before Shepard could protest further the door to the Undercroft creaked open; they both turned to see Cullen standing hesitantly in the doorway, as though contemplating whether to leave without saying a word. But despite the worry in his eyes, when he spoke his voice was firm and strong, and when his gaze settled on Shepard she didn’t know whether the tightness in her chest was affection or fear. “Liara, may I please speak with Shepard?”

Liara nodded, shooting Shepard a meaningful look before sweeping out of the room; she stopped by Cullen in the doorway, and for a wild moment Shepard thought she was going to kill him after all. “My promise still stands,” she said, voice low and deadly. “Hurt her and I will destroy you.”

She left them then, and Cullen offered Shepard a bashful smile as he rubbed the back of his neck - and she _really_ wished he wouldn’t do that, because it only made her fall for him more. “She really doesn’t like me, does she?”

“In a weird way, I think that was acceptance,” she mumbled, tearing her gaze away from him and back to her armour. “She showed me what you did for me. Thank you. I know it must’ve been difficult to find.”

He gave a non-committal shrug as he came to stand beside her, and surely he’d stood closer to her before but still it felt too much. “It seemed important to you,” he said softly. “Back in Kirkwall.”

“It was. Or… is. I don’t know.”

“Is something the matter?”

“I just… I don’t feel much like the woman who used to wear this anymore,” she admitted, daring to look up at him again; his brow was knitted with concern, the uncertainty in his golden eyes almost unbearable. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. You’re a long way from home.” He cleared his throat, visibly summoning up the courage to start the conversation she was dreading. “I— I wanted to talk about—”

“We don’t have to.”

“I really think we should.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” she persisted. “It was a— a poorly considered moment of stupidity, and I didn’t think that— I just didn’t _think_ ,” she said, the words spilling from her in a nervous flurry even as his countenance crumpled. “We should just pretend it didn’t happen. Not that anything did happen.”

“Is… that what you want?”

Of all the questions he could ask, it had to be that one; for he didn’t understand that what she wanted was something she’d never been able to have before, nor that everything she’d wanted - _loved_ \- before him was _gone_. And he didn’t know that acknowledging it - giving voice to the yearning of her soul, allowing herself to _hope_ \- would be nothing more than the first step towards losing him.

“What I want,” she repeated with a bitter twist of her lips. “What I want is not to ruin everything we have just because you’re ridiculously handsome first thing in the morning.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he muttered. “I…” he began, then seemed to lose his nerve, looking down at Liara’s workspace and distractedly fiddling with one of her instruments. “What Leliana read in that letter,” he started again, a waver of apprehension in his voice now. “What I said in Orlais, about my heart belonging to another. That was true.”

“I see.”

“A-and you asked me what was wrong with her,” he continued, still not meeting her gaze. “Well, for starters - she’s brash, and reckless, and she constantly tries to pull rank on me, and yet… and yet there’s no person in Thedas I would rather be around.”

“She sounds terrible.”

“Shepard.” He shook his head, finally looking at her - and it was clear he was scared too, but for vastly different reasons. “I care for you.”

That simple sentence was almost enough to make her cry, because he was acting like it was easy - as though mere words were all it took for a happily-ever-after which only truly existed in stories. As if he’d never known loss before. “I care about you, too,” she told him, barely able to admit even that. “You know I do.”

“No, I— you’re all I ever think about,” he told her, sensing the avoidance in her words. “You have been ever since you turned up at Skyhold, and I— I’ve never felt like this before. I never thought I’d feel this way for anyone. A-and I wasn’t going to say anything, because it seemed too much to ask for you to feel…” he trailed off, his outpouring of emotions running dry as doubt hit him afresh - and she wanted to reassure him, because of _course_ she felt as he did - yet her throat tightened as the words remained lodged in her chest. “But back in that cave, it almost seemed like you did.”

She teetered on the precipice of decision - and, for a brief and shining moment, his earnestness almost made her believe it were possible; that the future he offered wasn’t so hard to have after all. But then he reached out, tentatively taking her hand in his, and the faint tremor in his touch brought reality crashing down on her once more.

She’d pretended not to notice when Thane shook. She almost hadn’t needed to; he was so good at concealing it she’d only noticed at the end, the tremor just palpable as he’d held her and promised the time he had left was hers. She’d felt it then, but only saw it after, and just the once; as he’d pointed a gun at his target, and missed. And she’d thought knowing the end would make it easier - but she’d been wrong.

She’d said she’d meet him across the sea. But she’d known, even as she’d made the vow, there was nothing but darkness in that beyond.

“I can’t.”

She pulled her hand away from him, folding her arms across her chest and trying - failing - not to let the look of utter devastation on his face destroy her. “You don’t want to be with me,” she told him, attempting a smile that came out more like a grimace. “I’d drive you mad within five minutes. You want a nice girl; someone who can—”

“Do not presume to tell me what I want, Shepard.”

“See? I’m already annoying you. Look, Rutherford—”

“Don’t call me that,” he cut her off, refusing to allow that distance between them. “Not now.”

“Cullen.” She was softer on his given name, as she always was - but still she persisted, as if weak reasoning would persuade him to see sense. “You haven’t thought this through. What— what about Kirkwall? Do you want to be known as the Templar who shacked up with one of his old mages?”

“I’m not a Templar - and you aren’t even a mage!”

“That’s what everyone sees me as - and it’s all people will ever talk about. It’ll kill your credibility.”

“Maker, Shepard; you can’t talk me out of I feel!” he barked, then winced at the sharpness in his own voice; he pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking calmly once more. “There is nothing you can say which will change how much I care for you. But… but clearly you do not feel the same way,” he said, realisation seeming to hit only as he spoke the words; his shoulders slumped, defeated and broken even as he offered her a strained smile. “Which… is fine. I cannot change your heart, just as you cannot change mine. I was a fool to even think— I— forgive me. I’ll leave you alone.”

He turned to leave, and she knew she should let him go - to allow him to think she simply didn’t want him - but worse than denying him was allowing him to believe, even for a moment, that he was unworthy.

“That’s not it at all.”

It came out so quietly she was surprised he even heard it, but still he stopped dead, swivelling back round to face her. “Then what is it?” he asked, taking a hesitant step towards her once more. “Will you please tell me how you feel?”

“I already told you,” she mumbled. “I told you you’re the most important person in Thedas to me.”

“But what does that mean?” he pressed, and then; “what are you scared of?”

“Losing you!” she snapped, throwing her hands up in desperation as the truth - the real truth, that she was a coward and a fraud and a ruin - came tumbling from her. “For _fuck’s_ sake; what do you think is actually going to happen here? That we’re going to ride off into the sunset together, take up farming in Ferelden with our dog and seven kids? No, of course not that’s not going to happen - I’ll tell you what’ll actually happen; you’re going to get fucking shot or stabbed or go mad from lyrium withdrawal and then I’m going to be alone, like I’m meant to be, except it’ll be a thousand times worse because I’ll have allowed myself to think that I deserve— _you_. And I can’t do it, Cullen. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

He watched her closely as her outburst came to an end, and she wished she’d let him leave without admitting the truth after all - because what she saw in his expression wasn’t anger or disappointment or even sorrow, but pity. “You aren’t meant to be alone,” he told her, voice quiet but resolute.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” she retorted, more viciously than she intended. “I’m sorry. I— I should go.”

“Shepard, please…”

If she looked back at him she knew she’d break, and so she kept her gaze straight ahead as she stormed from the Undercroft, fighting to ignore his voice echoing after her and the rushing of blood in her ears. It wasn’t until she reached her quarters that she finally allowed herself a single sob, an acknowledgement that - through trying to protect herself - she’d lost Cullen even so.

\---

Cullen didn’t remember much after Shepard had left him; he’d walked back to his office in a daze, sitting down at his desk and staring blankly at his reports without really seeing them, his mind dull and foggy in the wake of what had passed. Because he barely understood what she’d said; she’d been glib and then sad and then suddenly angry, but most of all she’d seemed _terrified_ , eyes wide and fearful as she’d tried to fight him away with her words. And if she merely didn’t want him, as he’d expected - if she couldn’t see beyond the wrongs which littered his past - it would be easy to process, if not accept; but within it all had been the implication, patent yet barely believable, that she had grown fond of him, too.

Grief was sure to set in in its time, but for now the disoriented numbness of his soul was a relief; feeling nothing, when for months his heart had been too full for his chest, was a comforting respite between futility and sorrow. It made him useless - his lacklustre attempts at his paperwork doomed from the off - but not miserable; misery would come when he saw her next, beautiful and perfect and forever out of his reach, but that… that would be something he’d simply have to deal with. He’d had his chance to keep her by in him in friendship; that he’d ruined it daring for more was now his burden to bear.

For how long he sat there he wasn’t sure, but when life flickered inside him next it was with the peal of alarm bells across Skyhold; he shook his head, trying his best - which was never good enough - to clear Shepard from his thoughts as he grabbed his sword and shield and raced out onto the sunset-touched battlements. His men were trained well; a group of them already lined the walls, bows poised with arrows readied, and he approached the nearest man for an update.

“Report, solider.”

“Ser!” the man saluted. “Sister Leliana’s scouts sent word five minutes ago - there’s a force approaching up the mountain.”

Cullen’s grip tightened around his sword. “Is it Corypheus?”

“They didn’t know - just said there’s a lot of them, and their weapons are like nothing they’ve ever seen!”

That was worrying, but he couldn’t be distracted by specifics right now; he needed to arrange his forces, make sure those within the walls were defended. “I want five archers on each wall and Bull’s Chargers on the gate. Find Grand Enchanter Fiona and ask her to organise the mages. Can you get that done, soldier?”

The man looked terrified but nodded, scuttling off to carry out his orders as Cullen squinted out at mountains below them; the sight of the force approaching - no more than three dozen men, clad in white metal armour - filled him with dread, for surely such heavily-armoured troops weren’t at their home with intentions of peace. “Men - be on your guard!” Cullen shouted to his troops. “You are not to engage unless they attack us first!”

“Yes, Commander!” the response came, and with that he was off, racing towards the War Room and - he hoped - the Inquisitor. The main hall was jammed with Skyhold’s civilians, huddled together in terror, no doubt fearing a repeat of Haven; lacking time to reassure them he pushed through the crowd, only to run straight into the woman he’d briefly put out of his mind.

“Cullen!” Shepard exclaimed, looking awkward for a second before apparently deciding the current situation was too important for restraint. “What’s—”

“War Room,” he told her abruptly, turning from her and moving swiftly towards Josephine’s office, leaving her to trail behind him. Trevelyan was already there, speaking in hushed tones with Leliana and Josephine; they all looked up at Cullen’s arrival, their expressions tense and grave.

“You saw the men approaching, Commander?” Trevelyan asked, and Cullen nodded.

“Thirty-five soldiers, give or take. I am not sure they are Corypheus’s forces, but they do not look as though they wish to be our allies.”

“What else could they be, if they are not allied to Corypheus?” Josephine asked.  
“They must be,” Leliana countered. “They killed three of my scouts; the fourth barely escaped with his life to warn us. They use some strange weaponry my scout could not quite describe; similar to Bianca, apparently, but loud and fatal with one fire.”

“Made of metal?” Shepard asked, and Leliana frowned at her.

“Yes. How did you—”

The door burst open again, and they all turned, weapons raised; Cassandra and Cole came barrelling through the door, each as white as a sheet. “Inquisitor,” Cassandra began. “Cole has some information on the men approaching us.”

“What is it, Cole?” the Inquisitor asked, but the spirit ignored him, instead stepping towards Shepard with wide eyes. 

“The dogs have come for their shepherd. Names metal, melded to the heart, gone long before you were ready, but it had to be you. You need to run.”

“What dogs?” Cullen demanded. “Can you not speak normally for once?”

But no-one paid him any attention; they were all focused on Shepard, who for once in her life was very quiet. “Cerberus,” she whispered, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and Cole nodded. “ _How_?”

“I don’t understand it. The sky was scarred, and they fought through the red to the green. Your world has never made sense to me.”

“I should go,” Shepard said quietly, and then, taking a deep breath, she saluted the Inquisitor, looking resolute once more. “Trevelyan - good luck. I’m sorry I couldn't see this through with you.”

“ _What_?!” the Inquisitor spluttered. “You’re leaving?!”

“What is going on?” Leliana asked.

“I have to go with them,” Shepard told them. “They’ll kill everyone in their way to get to me, and I won’t let that happen.”

“No; this is madness,” Cullen said. “Shepard, they don’t have many men. We can put an end to their attack at our walls.”

“No, you can't - at least not without significant casualties. I…” she began, but faltered as she looked at him, jaw clenched as though fighting to hold back what she desperately wanted to say.

“Shepard—”

A loud bang echoed through the keep, cutting off the half-formed plea on Cullen’s lips; a few seconds later one of his men barrelled into the room, visibly shaking. “Commander - I don’t know how they did it - explosives of some sort - but they’ve gotten through the gate, they’re in the grounds—”

“It’s fine, kid,” Shepard said. “Get to safety. I’ve got this.”

“Shepard, no,” Cassandra spoke now. “We can fight them off together—”

“The more you argue with me, the more of our men die out there. I need—”

Her words were drowned out by screaming directly outside their door, and she exchanged a final sad look with Cullen before turning from them and exiting towards the noise. The rest of them, of course, followed her, pushing through the frantic mass of people as more bangs rang though the air; Cullen’s stomach churned at the bodies already lining the floor, and the mob of white metal in front of him.

“I’m here, so you can stop now,” Shepard called out, loudly and clearly; at her words the crowd parted, stepping back to distance themselves as much as they could from the soldiers now entering the hall. They looked formidable, armour advanced in a way Cullen had never seen— 

Actually, he realised with a jolt, that wasn’t true; the colouring was different, but the construction was jarringly similar to Shepard’s armour, complete with complex rivets and impossibly-glowing embellishment. His sense of foreboding only increased as one of the men stepped forward, removing his helmet and regarding Shepard with a look which could only be described as awe.

“Commander Shepard,” he said. “May I just say, first and foremost, it is an honour.”

Another soldier stepped forward with manacles, and in a flash Shepard had conjured a biotic shield; larger than any protection Cullen had seen her make before, stretching out so it covered not just her but those who stood behind her, her teeth gritted and face set with intense focus. “Don't even think about it,” she muttered, glaring at them even as they readied their weapons; their leader raised a hand, signalling for his men to relax.

“There’s no reason we can’t do this like civilised people. Soldiers, disarm,” he ordered, and the group reluctantly did so. “Commander, won’t you do the same?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The man tutted. “And here I thought you were a woman of integrity; apparently you’ve been around these savages too long. Come now; you’ll only tire yourself out.”

With a growl she dropped her shield, though her biotics still sparked at her fingertips, a warning that she could call them back at a moment’s notice. “How in the _fuck_ are you people still a thing? I distinctly remember shooting your boss in the head.”

“Did you think all humanity’s problems would simply disappear with the Reapers?” he asked, voice full of derision. “Asari are still dictating intergalactic law, the Krogan are still a menace, and as for those jumped-up lizards—”

“So go bother the turians; why are you here annoying me?”

“I thought that would be obvious, Commander. We’re here to bring you home.”

Cullen’s heart thundered in his chest, the imminent danger of losing her eclipsing all fear he’d had for Skyhold, but Shepard merely glared at her opponent. “I’m fine where I am, thanks.”

“It wasn’t a request, Shepard,” the man said, his geniality slipping. “We’re under orders to bring you in. You’re too valuable to leave in the Middle Ages; scouting this place with Krogan wasn’t cheap.”

“That was—? You sons of bitches!” 

She lurched forward armed with only her fists as the man raised his weapon, but she was prevented from reaching her target by Liara; she rushed forward from the crowd, desperately pulling Shepard back with an arm around her waist. “Shepard, calm down!”

“They used Krogan like— like _tool_ s!” she screeched, trying to push her off.

“You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Doctor T’Soni!” the man exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise! Perhaps you can talk some sense into our asset—”

“I am not Cerberus _property_ ,” Shepard spat, a hatred in her voice Cullen had never heard before; he’d seen dislike in her, and righteous anger, but now there was a _loathing_ in her manner completely alien to him.

“Those implants of yours are,” he retorted. “And you were more than willing to use them for us a few years ago.”

“I’m going to say this _very_ slowly, so that maybe you’ll have a chance of understanding it,” Shepard hissed, finally shrugging off Liara as she squared up to the man, and despite his bravado he seemed to shrink under the ferocity of Shepard’s gaze. “My association with Cerberus began and ended with destroying the Collector base. I have never worked for you, nor have I ever supported your cause. The Illusive Man’s bullet-riddled skull should have made that abundantly clear.”

“You aren't going to make this easy, are you?” 

The Cerberus agent sighed, and in the next moment he had raised his weapon, pointing it at an Inquisition soldier to his flank. Shepard summoned her biotics just as Cullen reached for his sword, but they were both too slow; the man pulled his trigger and with an almighty _bang_ their soldier crumpled to the floor, a puddle of blood rapidly forming underneath his head. Shepard didn’t even use her biotics in response; she struck out with her fist, connecting it with the man’s nose as she wrestled the weapon out of his grip, forcing him to the floor in a headlock with the weapon pointed directly at his head. Cullen’s men began to move in defence of their dead comrade, and he desperately shouted for them to halt, knowing it would turn into a bloodbath if they started a full attack; he had to trust Shepard knew what she was doing, praying desperately she had a plan beyond her rage. 

“Put it down, Shepard,” another soldier ordered, his weapon - and the weapons of each Cerberus agent - trained on her; she merely arched an eyebrow at him, nonchalant and _extraordinary_ in the face of impossible odds.

“How much is your boss paying you?” she asked.

“I— what?”

“You heard me. What is it; twenty, thirty thousand creds? Do you know how much the Illusive Man spent on me? Four billion credits. Now all of you; put your _fucking_ guns down, because we all know whose life is more important to Cerberus.”

Cullen had never heard her speak in such a way before; she seemed a completely different person, serious and hard, no trace of the humour he adored in her manner. It wasn’t _her_ , not the Shepard he knew - and yet each soldier lowered their weapons as she’d commanded, her ability to disarm them with mere words amazing and terrifying all at once. With a shove she let go of the man in her grip, sending him clattering to the floor; he scrambled back up, gripping his bleeding nose and glaring at Shepard with none of the respect he’d first shown her.

“Enough,” he said, wiping the blood from his face on the back of his glove. “If you don’t come with us, we will open fire on the people in this room.” That sentence sent a wave of panic through the hall, some of their residents making a move for the door, and the man fired a shot into the air to startle them out of their actions. 

“Even with your weapons, we have mages, and we outnumber you,” Cullen found himself saying, moving forward to stand beside Shepard; she threw her arm out in front of him, trying to push him behind her, trying to _protect_ him, but he refused to let her be his shield. “My men will fight you back, and it will be hard fought, but we will win, and you will not leave with Shepard.”

“Cullen, I will kill you myself,” Shepard warned, throwing him a desperate look; he ignored her, staring down the man whose mouth now contorted into a triumphant smile.

“You’re right; you probably would win. But many of your people would die, and my first bullet would be directly between your eyes,” he told him, raising his weapon once more and pointing it at Cullen’s head. “So - what’ll it be, Commander? Will you play the hero once more, or will you allow your new friends to die?”

“Put it down, and I’ll come with you.”

“Shepard—” Cullen began, heart wrenching as he felt her irrevocably slipping away, but she cut him off with a hard stare.

“Don’t attack. Don’t follow. The Inquisition will not risk itself for me.” She softened slightly, her eyes falling to his chestplate, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to reach out to him - but instead she clenched hand into a fist and held it to her heart. “I’m so sorry, Cullen,” she muttered, too quietly for anyone but those closest to them to hear. “I feel like I should come up with a final witty one-liner, but things don’t really seem funny right now.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

She smiled weakly, and the thought of _that_ being his final image of her was too much to bear - and as she turned from him, allowing her captors to manacle her, he vowed it would not be the last. Because regardless of what they were, or what had passed between them, he’d learned a lifetime ago she was too full of spirit to be chained; even if it cost him his life, he refused to let her forfeit her own.

“I take it you could use the Shadow Broker,” Liara said, the words sparking a hint of fire back into Shepard.

“ _Liara_ —”

“It’s like you read my mind,” the Cerberus agent replied, drawing out a second set of cuffs; before he could place them on her, Liara turned to Cullen, offering her hand out to him.

“It’s been a privilege, Commander.”

He stared at her dumbly for a long moment - for of all the things which had occurred that day, Liara wanting to shake his hand was probably the most bizarre; she widened her eyes infinitesimally and thrust her hand further forwards, and when he shook it he felt a hard object between their palms.

She gave him the smallest of nods as she broke the handshake, face blank once more as she held out her wrists to Cerberus; they cuffed her quickly, and then, with one hand on each of their shoulders, escorted Liara and Shepard from Skyhold without another word. And, despite his promise to himself, as that brilliant flash of red hair disappeared from his view it still felt like he’d lost her forever; devastation still paralysed him even as he pledged to find her, wherever she went.

It wasn’t until they’d exited the gate he realised he hadn’t even said goodbye.


End file.
